The Buccaneers by Edith Wharton

muttered to herself: “If I only could—if I only knew how!”

VII.
    She was so busy with her thoughts that she was startled by the appearance, at the foot of the stairs, of a young man who stood there visibly waiting.
    â€œLord Richard!” she exclaimed, almost as surprised as when she had first recognized him, disguised in grimy overalls, at the Saratoga station.
    Since then she had, of necessity, run across him now and then, at the St. Georges’ as well as at Mrs. Closson’s; but if he had not perceptibly avoided her, neither had he sought her out, and for that she was thankful. The Lord Richard chapter was a closed one, and she had no wish to re-open it. She had paid its cost in some brief fears and joys, and one night of agonizing tears; but perhaps her Italian blood had saved her from ever, then or after, regarding it as a moral issue. In her busy life there was no room for dead love-affairs; and besides, did the word “love” apply to such passing follies? Fatalistically, she had registered the episode and pigeon-holed it. If ever she were to know an abiding grief it must be caused by one that engaged the soul.
    Lord Richard stood before her awkwardly. He was always either sullen or too hearty, and she hoped he was not going to be hearty. But perhaps since those days life had formed him....
    â€œI saw you go upstairs just now—and I waited.”
    â€œYou waited? For me?”
    â€œYes,” he muttered, still more awkwardly. “Could I speak to you?”
    Miss Testvalley reflected. She could not imagine what he wanted, but experience told her that it would almost certainly be something disagreeable. However, it was not her way to avoid issues—and perhaps he only wanted to borrow money. She could not. give him much, of course... but if it were only that, so much the better. “We can go in there, I suppose,” she said, pointing to the door of the public sitting-room. She lifted the portière and, finding the room empty, led the way to a ponderous rosewood sofa. Lord Richard shambled after her, and seated himself on the other side of the table before the sofa.
    â€œYou’d better be quick—there are always people here receiving visitors.”
    The young man, thus admonished, was still silent. He sat sideways on his chair, as though to avoid facing Miss Testvalley. A frown drew the shock of drab hair still lower over his low forehead, and he pulled nervously at his drab moustache.
    â€œWell?” said Miss Testvalley.
    â€œI—Look here. I’m no hand at explaining... never was... but you were always a friend of mine....”
    â€œI’ve no wish to be otherwise.”
    His frown relaxed slightly. “I never know how to say things....”
    â€œWhat is it you wish to say?”
    â€œI—Well, Mr. Closson asked me yesterday if there was any reason why I shouldn’t marry Conchita.”
    His eyes still avoided her, but she kept hers resolutely on his face. “Do you know what made him ask?”
    â€œWell, you see—there’s been no word from home. I rather fancy he expected the governor to write, or even to cable. They seem to do such a lot of cabling in this country, don’t they?”
    Miss Testvalley reflected. “How long ago did you write? Has there been time enough for an answer to come? It’s not likely that your family would cable.”
    Lord Richard looked embarrassed; which meant, she suspected, that his letter had not been sent as promptly as he had let the Clossons believe. Sheer dilatoriness might even have kept him from sending it at all. “You have written, I suppose?” she enquired sternly.
    â€œOh, yes, I’ve written.”
    â€œAnd told them everything—I mean about Miss Closson’s family?”
    â€œOf course,” he repeated, rather sulkily. “I haven’t got much of a head for that kind of thing; but I got Santos-Dios to write it all out for