Part 32 (2/2)

”I have been out of town so much, I can hardly say how it has been here,” he answered. ”I was all of August in the country; only coming to the city twice.”

My heart sank: that was just what they had said; he had been a great deal at home this summer, and she had been there all the time.

The dinner was becoming terribly _ennuyant_, and I wished with all my heart Throckmorton had been contented with just half the courses.

Richard did not seem to enjoy them, and I--I was so wretched I could scarcely say a word, much less eat a morsel. It had been a great mistake to invite him to take dinner; it was being too familiar, when he had put me at such a distance all these years: I wished for Mrs.

Throckmorton with all my heart. Why had I sent her off? Richard was evidently so constrained, and it was in such bad taste to have asked him here; it could not help putting thoughts in both our minds, sitting alone at a table opposite each other, as we should have been sitting daily if that horrid will had not been found. He had dined with us just twice before, but that was at dinner-parties, when there had been ever so many people between us, and when I had not said six words to him during the whole evening.

The only excuse I could offer, and that he could understand, would be that I wanted to talk business to him; I had said in my note that I wanted to consult him about something, and I must keep that in mind. I had wanted to ask him about a house I thought of buying, adjoining the Sisters' Hospital, to enlarge their work; but I was so wicked and worldly, I felt just then as if I did not care whether they had a house or not, or whether they did any work. However, I resolved to speak about it, when we had got away from the table, if we ever did.

Susan kept bringing dish after dish.

”Oh, we don't want any of that!” I exclaimed, at last, impatiently; ”do take it away, and tell them to send in the coffee.”

I was resolved upon one thing: Richard should tell me of his engagement before he went away; it would be dishonorable and unkind if he did not, and I should make him do it. I was not quite sure that I had self-control enough not to show how it made me feel, when it came to hearing it all in so many words. But in very truth, I had not much pride as regarded him; I felt so sore-hearted and unhappy, I did not care much whether he knew it or suspected it.

I could not help remembering how little concealment he had made of his love for me, even when he knew that all the heart I had was given to another. I would be very careful not to precipitate the disclosure, however, while we sat at table; it is so disagreeable to talk to any one on an agitating subject _vis-a-vis_ across a little dinner-table, with a bright light overhead, and a servant walking around, able to stop and study you from any point she pleases.

Coffee came at last, though even that, Susan was unwilling to look upon as the legitimate finale, and had her views about liqueur, instructed by Throckmorton. But I cut it short by getting up and saying, ”I'm sure you'll be glad to go into the parlor; it gets warm so soon in these little rooms.”

The parlor was very cool and pleasant; a window had been open, and the air was fresh, and the flowers were delicious, and the lamp was softer and pleasanter than the gas. I went to break up the coal and make the fire blaze, and Richard to shut the window down.

When I had pulled a chair up to the fire and seated myself, he stood leaning on the mantelpiece, on the other side from me. I felt sure he meant to go, the minute that he could get away--a committee meeting, no doubt, or some such nauseous fraud. But he should not go away until he had told me, that was certain.

”What is it that you wanted to ask me about, Pauline?” he said, rather abruptly.

My heart gave a great thump; how could he have known? Oh, it was the business that I had spoken of in my stupid note. Yes; and I began to explain to him what I wanted to do about the hospital.

He looked infinitely relieved. I believe he had an idea it was something very different. My explanation could not have added much to his reverence for my business ability. I was very indefinite, and could not tell him whether it was hundreds or thousands that I meant.

He said, with a smile, he thought it must be thousands, as city property was so very high. He was very kind, however, about the matter, and did not discourage me at all. He always seemed to approve of my desire to give away in charity, and, within bounds, always furthered such plans of doing good. He said he would look into it, and would write me word next week what his impression was; and then, I think, he meant to go away.

Then I began talking on every subject I could think of, hoping some of the roads would lead to Rome. But none of them led there, and I was in despair.

”Oh, don't you want to look at some photographs?” I said, at last, thinking I saw an opening for my wedge. I got the package, and he came to the table and looked at them, standing up. They were naturally of much more interest to me than to him, being of places and people with which I had so lately been familiar.

But he looked at them very kindly, and asked a good many questions about them.

”Look at this,” I said, handing him an Antwerp peasant-woman in her hideous bonnet. ”Isn't that ridiculously like Charlotte Benson? I bought it because it was so singular a resemblance.”

”It is like her,” he said, thoughtfully, looking at it long. ”The mouth is a little larger and the eyes further apart. But it is a most striking likeness. It might almost have been taken for her.”

”How is she, and when have you seen her?” I said, a little choked for breath.

”She is very well. I saw her yesterday,” he answered, still looking at the little picture.

”Was she with Sophie this summer?”

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