“Will she be very much distressed?” inquired Lady Harriet. “I know her so little. But one hates to give pain to people, especially young people who hope so much from life.”
“I hardly know her better than you do, that is the truth.”
“She seems a very unlikely niece for you to have,” said his companion, after a pause.
Mr. Lewis smiled. “I very often do not understand her,” he said, with a sigh.
“Do you think I ought to see her?” hazarded she, throwing herself upon the point she dreaded; “it seems so unkind not to say a word to her. What shall I do?”
She stopped short in their walk.
The Vicar did not know what to say. He had been unable to get any response to his own sympathy when Isoline had wept at breakfast, but he thought that perhaps another woman might help her when he could not. Then he remembered that she had said she did not care for Lady Harriet. He was puzzled.
“I will find her,” he said, “but if she feels she cannot speak about it, you will understand, will you not?”
“Poor child, of course. If you knew how I hate this, Mr. Lewis!”