‘It must give him some pleasure—it must!’ she said, slowly, piteously, as though she asked a question.
Falloden did not reply immediately. He rose from his seat. Nora, under a quick impulse, gathered up a letter she had been writing, and slipped out of the room.
‘At least—’ he looked away from her, straight out of window—‘I suppose it will please him—that we tried to do something.’
‘How is he—really?’
He shrugged his shoulders. Connie was standing, looking down, one hand on her chair. The afternoon had darkened; he could see only her white brow, and the wealth of her hair which the small head carried so lightly. Her childishness, her nearness, made his heart beat. Suddenly she lifted her eyes.
‘I wish you knew’—it seemed to him her voice choked a little—‘how much—you matter to him. Mrs. Mulholland and I couldn’t keep him cheerful while you were away.’
He laughed.
‘Well, I have only just escaped a catastrophe to-day.’
She looked alarmed.
‘How?’