“What do you understand by their silence then? I've wanted to ask you,” she turned toward him as she spoke.
Benson fell back a step, and under her steady gaze his face lost colour.
“Why, I—I hope for the best,” he said at last.
“Then you do think this silence means something more than the mere loss of letters—you—” she choked and could not go on, and her hands went up to her white round throat.
“No, no!” he cried hastily. “God forbid that we should think anything but the best for them; we can hardly understand their situation, a thousand things might stand in the way of your hearing.”
Her hands fell at her side.
“You are a man; you should know more of these matters than we women; what are the dangers that they may meet?”
“I don't know. Really, Mrs. Landray, you exaggerate the gravity of their silence. You mustn't give way to your fears,” he said with gentle insistance.
“My pride, my courage, has kept me up till now, in Jane's presence and in Anna's; perhaps because they were weak too, weak and helpless as only women can be; but you are a man, and it makes no difference to you!”
“Pardon me, it makes every difference to me; if you mean by that, this fear you have that some harm has come to them. I regard your husband as my best friend,” his voice shook with real feeling. “He is one of the few men to whom I am sincerely attached. Of course, I grant it is impossible that I should feel this silence as deeply as you feel it—”