In April--and this was July. Had that infatuation
begun even then, which had robbed her of her dearest--her Benjamin?
She fell into a restless sleep after a while, and woke suddenly, in alarm.
There was somebody approaching her room--evidently on tiptoe. Some one
knocking--very gently. She sat up, trembling. "Come in!"
The door opened--and there was Coryston.
She fell back on her cushions, astonished and annoyed.
"I said I was not to be disturbed, Coryston."
He paused on the threshold.
"Am I disturbing you? Wouldn't you like me to read to you--or something?"
His tone was so gentle that she was disarmed--though still annoyed.
"Come in. I may perhaps point out that it's a long time since you've come
to see me like this, Coryston."
"Yes. Never mind. What shall I read?"
She pointed to a number of the _Quarterly_ that was lying open, and to
an article on "The later years of Disraeli."
Coryston winced. He knew the man who had written it, and detested him. But
he sat down beside her, and began immediately to read. To both of them his
reading was a defense against conversation, and yet to both of them, after
a little while, it was pleasant.
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