Stella heard those last words, and looked at him in astonishment. “Were you angry with Mr. Penrose?” she asked innocently. “Is it possible that _you_ could speak harshly to any person in your employment?”
Romayne smiled. “It was not what I said,” he answered. “I am subject to attacks--to sudden attacks of illness. I am sorry I alarmed Mr. Penrose by letting him see me under those circumstances.”
She looked at him; hesitated; and looked away again. “Would you be angry with me if I confessed something?” she said timidly.
“It is impossible I can be angry with you!”
“Mr. Romayne, I think I have seen what your secretary saw. I know how you suffer, and how patiently you bear it.”
“I saw you with your friend, when you came on board the steamboat at Boulogne. Oh, no, you never noticed me! You never knew how I pitied you. And afterward, when you moved away by yourself, and stood by the place in which the engines work--you are sure you won’t think the worse of me, if I tell it?”
“Your face frightened me--I can’t describe it--I went to your friend and took it on myself to say that you wanted him. It was an impulse--I meant well.”
“I am sure you meant well.” As he spoke, his face darkened a little, betraying a momentary feeling of distrust. Had she put indiscreet questions to his traveling companion; and had the Major, under the persuasive influence of her beauty, been weak enough to answer them? “Did you speak to my friend?” he asked.
“Only when I told him that he had better go to you. And I think I said afterward I was afraid you were very ill. We were in the confusion of arriving at Folkestone--and, even if I had thought it right to say more, there was no opportunity.”
Romayne felt ashamed of the suspicion by which he had wronged her. “You have a generous nature,” he said earnestly. “Among the few people whom I know, how many would feel the interest in me that you felt?”
“Don’t say that, Mr. Romayne! You could have had no kinder friend than the gentleman who took care of you on your journey. Is he with you now in London?”
“I am sorry to hear it. You ought to have some devoted friend always near you.”
She spoke very earnestly. Romayne shrank, with a strange shyness, from letting her see how her sympathy affected him. He answered lightly. “You go almost as far as my good friend there reading the newspaper,” he said. “Lord Loring doesn’t scruple to tell me that I ought to marry. I know he speaks with a sincere interest in my welfare. He little thinks how he distresses me.”
