"Mrs. Quentin," the girl faltered, "I really came here because I saw
your carriage." Her eyes sank, and then fluttered back to her
hearer's face. "I've been horribly unhappy!" she exclaimed.
Mrs. Quentin was silent. If Hope Fenno had expected an immediate
response to her appeal, she was disappointed. The older woman's face
was like a veil dropped before her thoughts.
"I've thought so often," the girl went on precipitately, "of what
you said that day you came to see me last autumn. I think I
understand now what you meant--what you tried to make me see....
Oh, Mrs. Quentin," she broke out, "I didn't mean to tell you this--I
never dreamed of it till this moment--but you _do_ remember what you
said, don't you? You must remember it! And now that I've met you in
this way, I can't help telling you that I believe--I begin to
believe--that you were right, after all."
Mrs. Quentin had listened without moving; but now she raised her
eyes with a slight smile. "Do you wish me to say this to Alan?" she
asked.
The girl flushed, but her glance braved the smile. "Would he still
care to hear it?" she said fearlessly.
Mrs. Quentin took momentary refuge in a renewed inspection of the
Beltraffio; then, turning, she said, with a kind of reluctance: "He
would still care."
"Ah!" broke from the girl.
During this exchange of words the two speakers had drifted
unconsciously toward one of the benches. Mrs. Quentin glanced about
her: a custodian who had been hovering in the doorway sauntered into
the adjoining gallery, and they remained alone among the silvery
Vandykes and flushed bituminous Halses.
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