At this moment the library door was pushed gently open, and the form of a woman stood in the presence of Mr. Delancy and Rose. She was dressed in a dark silk, but had on neither bonnet nor shawl. Both started; Mr. Delancy raised his hands and bent forward, gazing at her eagerly, his lips apart. The face of the woman was pale and haggard, yet familiar as the face of an old friend; but in it was something so strange and unnatural that for a moment or two it was not recognized.
"Father!" It was Irene. She advanced quietly and held but her hand.
"My daughter!" He caught the extended hand and kissed her, but she showed no emotion.
"Rose, dear, I am glad to see you." There was truth in the dead level tone with which "I am glad to see you" was spoken, and Rose, who perceived this, took her hand and kissed her. Both hands and lips were cold.
"What's the matter, Irene? Have you been sick?" asked Mr. Delancy, in a choking voice.
"No, father, I'm very well." You would never have recognized that voice as the voice of Irene.
"No, child, you are not well. What ails you? Why are you here in so strange a way and looking so strangely?"
"Do I look strangely?" There was a feeble effort to awaken a smile, which only gave her face a ghastly expression.
"Is Hartley with you?"
"No." Her voice was fuller and more emphatic as she uttered this word. She tried to look steadily at her father, but her eyes moved aside from the range of his vision.