Horace seated himself in the vacant place on the sofa. So far as it was in his nature to devote himself to any one he was devoted to Mercy. “I am grieved to see how you have suffered,” he said, with honest distress in his face as he looked at her. “Try to forget what has happened.”
“I am trying to forget. Do you think of it much?”
“My darling, it is too contemptible to be thought of.”
She placed her work-basket on her lap. Her wasted fingers began absently sorting the wools inside.
“Have you seen Mr. Julian Gray?” she asked, suddenly.
“Yes.”
“What does he say about it?” She looked at Horace for the first time, steadily scrutinizing his face. Horace took refuge in prevarication.
“I really haven’t asked for Julian’s opinion,” he said.
She looked down again, with a sigh, at the basket on her lap—considered a little—and tried him once more.
“Why has Mr. Julian Gray not been here for a whole week?” she went on. “The servants say he has been abroad. Is that true?”