With downcast eyes he placed a chair for her. With downcast eyes she
bowed to him and took it. A dead silence followed. Never was any human
misunderstanding more intricately complete than the misunderstanding
which had now established itself between those two.
Mercy's work-basket was near her. She took it, and gained time for
composing herself by pretending to arrange the colored wools. He stood
behind her chair, looking at the graceful turn of her head, looking at
the rich masses of her hair. He reviled himself as the weakest of men,
as the falsest of friends, for still remaining near her--and yet he
remained.
The silence continued. The billiard-room door opened again noiselessly.
The face of the listening woman appeared stealthily behind it.
At the same moment Mercy roused herself and spoke: "Won't you sit down?"
she said, softly, still not looking round at him, still busy with her
basket of wools.
He turned to get a chair--turned so quickly that he saw the
billiard-room door move, as Grace Roseberry closed it again.
"Is there any one in that room?" he asked, addressing Mercy.
"I don't know," she answered. "I thought I saw the door open and shut
again a little while ago."
He advanced at once to look into the room. As he did so Mercy dropped
one of her balls of wool. He stopped to pick it up for her--then threw
open the door and looked into the billiard-room. It was empty.
Had some person been listening, and had that person retreated in time
to escape discovery? The open door of the smoking-room showed that room
also to be empty. A third door was open--the door of the side hall,
leading into the grounds. Julian closed and locked it, and returned to
the dining-room.
"I can only suppose," he said to Mercy, "that the billiard-room door was
not properly shut, and that the draught of air from the hall must have
moved it."
She accepted the explanation in silence. He was, to all appearance, not
quite satisfied with it himself. For a moment or two he looked about him
uneasily. Then the old fascination fastened its hold on him again. Once
more he looked at the graceful turn of her head, at the rich masses of
her hair. The courage to put the critical question to him, now that
she had lured him into remaining in the room, was still a courage that
failed her. She remained as busy as ever with her work--too busy to look
at him; too busy to speak to him. The silence became unendurable. He
broke it by making a commonplace inquiry after her health. "I am well
enough to be ashamed of the anxiety I have caused and the trouble I have
given," she answered. "To-day I have got downstairs for the first
time. I am trying to do a little work." She looked into the basket. The
various specimens of wool in it were partly in balls and partly in loose
skeins. The skeins were mixed and tangled. "Here is sad confusion!"
she exclaimed, timidly, with a faint smile. "How am I to set it right
again?"