“I called at the Hennikers’ a couple of days ago, but Ethelwynn is no longer there. She’s gone into the country, it seems,” I remarked.
“Where to?” she asked quickly.
“She’s visiting someone near Hereford.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, as though a sudden light dawned upon her. “I know, then. Why, I wonder, did she not tell me. I intended to call on her this evening, but it is useless. I’m glad to know, for I don’t care much for Mrs. Henniker. She’s such a very shallow woman.”
“Ethelwynn seems to have wandered about a good deal since the sad affair at Kew,” I observed.
“Yes, and so have I,” she responded. “As you are well aware, the blow was such a terrible one to me that—that somehow I feel I shall never get over it—never!” I saw tears, genuine tears, welling in her eyes. If she could betray emotion in that manner she was surely a wonderful actress.
“Time will efface your sorrow,” I said, in a voice meant to be sympathetic. “In a year or two your grief will not be so poignant, and the past will gradually fade from your memory. It is always so.”
She shook her head mournfully.
“No,” she said, “for in addition to my grief there is the mystery of it all—a mystery that grows each day more and more inscrutable.”
I glanced sharply at her in surprise. Was she trying to mislead me, or were her words spoken in real earnest? I could not determine.