on to a conciliatory smile that had its guilty origin in hypocrisy.
But Mrs. Montrose still ministered to us in "extras" such as polishing the walnut which began to resume something of the marble-like finish it wore during earlier and more palmy, days. It was a task better suited to those fine, delicately-shaped fingers.
I never asked her about the visit of the English friend. I have many and sad reasons for knowing myself a fool, but I am not that particular kind of fool. It was a subject we both preferred to avoid.
The other occasion when I saw beneath the impassive surface in which this woman had taken refuge, was on the day she came to tell me a very surprising bit of news—that they had taken passage back to England, no less! She told me in the habitually quiet way, just as she would have told me the brass-polish was done. An Aunt of Mr. Montrose, it appeared, had recently died, and he was needed home on, business. I hoped it meant a legacy. All the Aunts in English stories exist, or rather non-exist, for this sole purpose. But nothing was vouchsafed me on the point. They were sailing in ten days.
