“Well! Get him to come back, Sewell,” said Mr. Corey, with his whimsical imperiousness; “I can't get on without him. All my moral and intellectual being has stopped like a watch.”
Sewell went to the boarding-house where Lemuel took his meals, but found that he no longer came there, and had left no other address. He knew nowhere else to ask, and he went home to a day of latent trouble of mind, which whenever it came to the light defined itself as helpless question and self-reproach in regard to Barker.
That evening as he sat at tea, the maid came with the announcement that there was a person in the reception-room who would not send in any name, but wished to see Mr. Sewell, and would wait.
Sewell threw down his napkin, and said, “I'll bring him in to tea.”
Mrs. Sewell did not resist; she bade the girl lay another plate.
Sewell was so sure of finding Lemuel in the reception-room, that he recoiled in dismay from the girlish figure that turned timidly from the window to meet him with a face thickly veiled. He was vexed, too; here, he knew from the mystery put on, was one of those cases of feminine trouble, real or unreal, which he most disliked to meddle with.
“Will you sit down?” he said, as kindly as he could, and the girl obeyed.
“I thought they would let me wait. I didn't mean to interrupt you,” she began, in a voice singularly gentle and unaffected.
“Oh, no matter!” cried Sewell. “I'm very glad to see you.”
“I thought you could help me. I'm in great trouble—doubt—”