I do believe that--poor little exquisite wretch!--he wants to speak.
Last evening, in the firelight and the silence, he sat with me
for two hours as if it were just coming."
Mrs. Grose looked hard, through the window, at the gray, gathering day.
"And did it come?"
"No, though I waited and waited, I confess it didn't, and it was
without a breach of the silence or so much as a faint allusion to his
sister's condition and absence that we at last kissed for good night.
All the same," I continued, "I can't, if her uncle sees her,
consent to his seeing her brother without my having given the boy--
and most of all because things have got so bad--a little more time."
My friend appeared on this ground more reluctant than I could
quite understand. "What do you mean by more time?"
"Well, a day or two--really to bring it out. He'll then be on
MY side--of which you see the importance. If nothing comes,
I shall only fail, and you will, at the worst, have helped me by doing,
on your arrival in town, whatever you may have found possible."
So I put it before her, but she continued for a little so inscrutably
embarrassed that I came again to her aid. "Unless, indeed,"
I wound up, "you really want NOT to go."
I could see it, in her face, at last clear itself;
she put out her hand to me as a pledge. "I'll go--I'll go.
I'll go this morning."
I wanted to be very just.
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