"Did no one come up with you?" he asked.
"No one but major Marvel," she answered, and opened the door of the
drawing-room.
As she opened it, she woke to the consciousness that she was very cross,
and in a mood to make her unfair to Gartley: the moment she had closed
it, she turned to him and said,
"Forgive me, Gartley; I am in trouble; we are all in trouble. When I
have told you about it, I shall be more at ease."
Without preamble, or any attempt to influence the impression of the
dreadful news, she began her story, softening the communication only by
making it as the knowledge had come to her--telling first her mother's
distress at Sarah's letter, then the contents of that letter, and then
those of her uncle's. She could not have done it with greater fairness
to her friend: his practised self-control had opportunity for perfect
operation. But the result was more to her satisfaction than she could
have dared to hope. He held out his hand with a smile, and said,
"I am very sorry. What is there I can do?"
She looked up in his eyes. They were looking down kindly and lovingly.
"Then--then--," she said, "you don't--I mean there's no--I mean, you
don't feel differently towards me?"
"Towards you, my angel!" exclaimed Gartley, and held out his arms.
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