in spite of her own preoccupation, was struck by her pallor and her attitude of dejection.
“I’m sure we shall find him,” she said more gently than she had yet spoken.
“It may be too late,” Katharine replied. Without understanding her, Mary began to pity her for what she was suffering.
“Nonsense,” she said, taking her hand and rubbing it. “If we don’t find him there we shall find him somewhere else.”
“But suppose he’s walking about the streets—for hours and hours?”
She leant forward and looked out of the window.
“He may refuse ever to speak to me again,” she said in a low voice, almost to herself.
The exaggeration was so immense that Mary did not attempt to cope with it, save by keeping hold of Katharine’s wrist. She half expected that Katharine might open the door suddenly and jump out. Perhaps Katharine perceived the purpose with which her hand was held.
“Don’t be frightened,” she said, with a little laugh. “I'm not going to jump out of the cab. It wouldn’t do much good after all.”
Upon this, Mary ostentatiously withdrew her hand.
“I ought to have apologized,” Katharine continued, with an effort, “for bringing you into all this business; I haven’t told you half, either. I’m no longer engaged to William Rodney. He is to marry Cassandra Otway. It’s all arranged—all perfectly right. . . And after he’d waited in the streets for hours and hours, William made me bring him in. He was standing under the lamp-post watching our windows. He was perfectly white when he came into the room. William left us alone, and we sat and talked. It seems ages and ages ago, now. Was it last night? Have I been out long? What’s the time?”
