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Updated: June 6, 2025
The house was perfectly quiet and still by this time; the dust-cloud hung on the air and caused the lamps to burn with a spitting blue flame. Enid's face looked deadly pale against her black dress. "So you have been seeing Reginald," she said. "Why why did you do it?" "I didn't mean to," Frank muttered. "I never intended him to know that I had been in the house at all.
But now that first interview was past by three weeks, and Enid's daily visits to the great room where he gave audience to the congregation had become one of the recognized events of the twenty-four hours.
In utter dismay Hubert tried persuasion, argument, rebuke, for some time in vain. At last he turned away from her, and began walking up and down a short stretch of the drive, bitterly regretting the impulse that had caused him to take the care of this strange child, even for a few moments, on his hands. But he had promised to get rid of her, and he must do so, if only for Enid's sake.
Out there they haven't. It's terrible to think of all those millions that live and die in darkness." Claude glanced up at the sombre mill house, hidden in cedars, then off at the bright, dusty fields. He felt as if he were a little to blame for Enid's melancholy. He hadn't been very neighbourly this last year. "People can live in darkness here, too, unless they fight it. Look at me.
A moment later she re-entered, followed closely by Westervelt. "Herr Westervelt, let me introduce Mr. George Douglass, author of Alessandra, Lillian's Duty, and Enid's Choice." For an instant Westervelt's face was a confused, lumpy mass of amazement and resentment; then he capitulated, quick to know on which side his bread was buttered, and, flinging out a fat hand, he roared: "Very good joke.
She looked timidly towards Hubert's chair, then rushed forward and rang the bell violently. She had had some fear of the result of Enid's visit, and her fear was certainly justified. Hubert had fainted away when his visitor had left the room. It was not until some time afterwards that Cynthia allowed him to talk again.
"You have had a great deal you have been the victim of a tragedy," said Hubert gloomily, not able to deny the truth of her remark, even while he was forced to remember that many other girls of Enid's age had far more real and tangible sorrows than she.
"Our man is all right?" he asked. "As a trivet," said Williams. "Sleeping like a baby; he is in my own bed over the stable. I'll show you into the harness-room, where Miss Enid's waiting for you, sir, and then I'll go and see as Henson don't come prowling about. Not as he's likely to, considering the clump on the side of the head you gave him. I take it kind of Providence to let me see that!"
He seemed to find out everything, and to read others before they had made up their minds for themselves. The cigar seemed to dance like a mocking sprite into the bushes. Usually the man avoided those bushes. If Reginald Henson was afraid of one thing it was of the dogs. And in return they hated him as he hated them. Enid's mind was made up.
To serve his own ends he would have sat there watching all night if necessary. He heard an occasional whimper, a howl from one of the dogs; he heard Enid's voice singing in the drawing-room. The rest of the house was quite funereal enough for him. In the midst of the drawing-room Margaret Henson sat still as a statue. The distant, weary expression never left her eyes for a moment.
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