The instant irritation in his face sobered her. She began, carefully,
to talk of this or that: his journey, the Mercer business, his
health--anything to make him smile again. Plainly, it was not the
moment to speak of Mr. Benjamin Wright and her purpose of leaving Old
Chester.
"Now I must run up-stairs just one minute, and see David," she said in
the middle of a sentence. Her minute lengthened to ten, but when she
came back, explaining that she had stopped to wash David's face--"it
was all stained by tears"--he did not seem impatient.
"Your own would be improved by soap and water, my dear," he said with
an amused look. "No! no--don't go now; I want to talk to you, and I
haven't much time."
She knew him too well to insist; instead, she burst into what gayety
she could summon, for that was how he liked her. But back in her mind
there was a growing tremor of apprehension:--there was something
wrong; she could not tell what it was, but she felt it. She said to
herself that she would not speak of Mr. Benjamin Wright until after
dinner.
Little by little, however, her uneasiness subsided. It became evident
that the excitement of the morning had not been too much for Maggie;
things were very good, and Lloyd Pryor was very appreciative, and
Helena's charm more than once touched him to a caressing glance and a
soft word. But as they got up from the table he glanced at his watch,
and she winced; then smiled, quickly. She brought him his cigar and
struck a light; and he, looking at her with handsome, lazy eyes,
caught the hand which held the flaming match, and lit his cigar in
slow puffs.
"Now I must go and give a look at David," she said.
"Look here, Nelly," he protested, "aren't you rather overdoing this
adopted-mother business?"
She found the child rather flushed and in an uneasy doze. Instantly
she was anxious. "Don't leave him, Sarah," she said. "I'll have Maggie
bring your dinner up to you. Oh, I wish I didn't have to go
downstairs!"
"I'm afraid he is worse," she told Lloyd Pryor with a worried frown.
"Well, don't look as if it were an affair of nations," he said
carelessly, and drew her down on the sofa beside him. He was so
gracious to her, that she forgot David; but she quivered for fear the
graciousness should cease. She was like a thirsty creature, drinking
with eager haste, lest some terror should drive her back into the
desert. But Lloyd Pryor continued to be gracious; he talked gayly of
this or that; he told her one or two stories that had been told him in
a directors' meeting or on a journey, and he roared with appreciation
of their peculiar humor. She flushed; but she made herself laugh. Then
she began tentatively to say something of Old Chester; and--and what
did he think? "That old man, who lives up on the hill, called, and--"