‘Prayers—to God! To St. Swithin, rather!’
‘What do you mean, Louis?’ she asked, flushing up warm, and drawing back from him. ‘It was a form of prayer I use, particularly when I am in trouble. It was recommended to me by the Bishop, and Mr. Torkingham commends it very highly.’
‘On your honour, if you have any,’ he said bitterly, ‘whom have you there in your room?’
‘No human being.’
‘Flatly, I don’t believe you.’
She gave a dignified little bow, and, waving her hand into the apartment, said, ‘Very well; then search and see.’
Louis entered, and glanced round the room, behind the curtains, under the bed, out of the window—a view from which showed that escape thence would have been impossible,—everywhere, in short, capable or incapable of affording a retreat to humanity; but discovered nobody. All he observed was that a light stood on the low table by her bedside; that on the bed lay an open Prayer-Book, the counterpane being unpressed, except into a little pit beside the Prayer Book, apparently where her head had rested in kneeling.
‘But where is St. Cleeve?’ he said, turning in bewilderment from these evidences of innocent devotion.
‘Where can he be?’ she chimed in, with real distress. ‘I should so much like to know. Look about for him. I am quite uneasy!’
‘I will, on one condition: that you own that you love him.’