"I haven't been here in two or three days," he began, as he took the
hand she offered, "and I'm really astonished at the progress you've
been making."
He still retained her hand, as he smiled down into her grave,
preoccupied face.
"What's the trouble with our little lady of Bolton House?" he
inquired. "Any of the workmen on strike, or--"
She withdrew her hand with a faint smile.
"Everything is going very well, I think," she told him.
He was still scrutinizing her with that air of intimate concern,
which inspired most of the women of his flock to unburden themselves
of their manifold anxieties at his slightest word of encouragement.
"It's a pretty heavy burden for you," he said gravely. "You need some
one to help you. I wonder if I couldn't shoulder a few of the grosser
details?"
"You've already been most kind," Lydia said evasively. "But now-- Oh,
I think everything has been thought of. You know Mr. Whittle is
looking after the work."
He smiled, a glimmer of humorous understanding in his fine dark eyes.
"Yes, I know," he said.
A silence fell between them. Lydia was one of those rare women who do
not object to silence. It seemed to her that she had always lived
alone with her ambitions, which could not be shared, and her bitter
knowledge, which was never to be spoken of. But now she stirred
uneasily in her chair, aware of the intent expression in his eyes.
Her troubled thoughts reverted to the little picture which had
fluttered to the floor from somebody's keeping only an hour before.
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