VIII
The young man, meanwhile, had approached in surprise. "He's gone? I've been looking for him!"
Mrs. Gracedew was out of breath; there was a disturbed whiteness of bosom in her which needed time to subside and which she might have appeared to retreat before him on purpose to veil. "I don't think, you know, that you need him—now."
Clement Yule was mystified. "Now?"
She recovered herself enough to explain—made an effort at least to be plausible. "I mean that—if you don't mind—you must deal with me. I've arranged with Mr. Prodmore to take it over."
Oh, he gave her no help! "Take what over?"
She looked all about as if not quite thinking what it could be called; at last, however, she offered with a smile a sort of substitute for a name. "Why, your debt."
374
