“No; he asked particularly for you, miss,” the servant answered, standing with her hand on the door.
“Very well; you can show him in here,” Kate replied, casting an eye round her, but disdaining to remove the signs of domestic employment which met its scrutiny. “He has come to say good-by,” she thought to herself; and she schooled herself to play her part fitly and close the little drama with decency and reserve.
He came in looking very thoughtful. She need not have feared for her father’s papers, her sister’s dog’s-eared Ollendorf, or her own sewing. He did not so much as glance at them. She thought she saw business in his eye, and she said as he advanced, “Did you wish to see me or my father, Mr. Lindo?”
“You, Miss Bonamy,” he answered, shaking hands with her. “You have heard the news, I suppose?”
“Yes,” she replied soberly. “I am so very sorry. I fear—I mean I regret now, that when you——”
“Asked for advice”—he continued, helping her out with a grave smile. He had taken the great leather-covered easy-chair on the other side of the fireplace, and was sitting forward in it, toying with his hat.
“Yes,” she said, coloring—“if you like to put it in that very flattering form—I regret now that I presumed to give it, Mr. Lindo.”
“I am sorry for that,” he answered, looking up at her as he spoke.
She felt herself coloring anew. “Why?” she asked rather tremulously.
“Because I have come to ask your advice again. You will not refuse to give it me?”