When at length she entered,
Irene saw she had been hastening; but Helen's features seemed to
betray some other cause of discomposure than mere unpunctuality.
Having glanced at her once or twice, Irene kept an averted face.
Neither spoke as they sat down to table; only when they had begun
the meal did Helen ask whether her friend felt better. The reply was
a brief affirmative. For the rest of the time they talked a little,
absently, about trivialities; then they parted; without any
arrangement for the afternoon.
Irene's mind was in that state of perilous commotion which invests
with dire significance any event not at once intelligible. Alone in
her chamber, she sat brooding with tragic countenance. How could
Helen's behaviour be explained? If she had met Piers Otway and spent
part of the morning with him, why did she keep silence about it? Why
was she so late in coming home, and what had heightened her colour,
given that peculiar shiftiness to her eyes?
She rose, went to Helen's door, and knocked.
"May I come in?"
"Of course--I have a letter to write by post-time."
"I won't keep you long," said Irene, standing before her friend's
chair, and regarding her with grave earnestness. "Did Mr. Otway call
this morning?"
"He was coming; I met him outside, and told him you weren't very
well. And"--she hesitated, but went on with a harder voice and a
careless smile--"we had a walk up the glen.
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