By Jove, it's sickening! You told me how all the riffraff in
town were busy with her name, and then the minute I lift my hand to
protect her, you begin to attack me and--"
"Sh!" Fanny checked him, laying her hand on his arm. "Your uncle is
going."
The library doors were heard opening, and a moment later there came
the sound of the front door closing.
George moved toward the head of the stairs, then stood listening; but
the house was silent.
Fanny made a slight noise with her lips to attract his attention, and,
when he glanced toward her, shook her head at him urgently. "Let her
alone," she whispered. "She's down there by herself. Don't go down.
Let her alone."
She moved a few steps toward him and halted, her face pallid and
awestruck, and then both stood listening for anything that might break
the silence downstairs. No sound came to them; that poignant silence
was continued throughout long, long minutes, while the two listeners
stood there under its mysterious spell; and in its plaintive
eloquence--speaking, as it did, of the figure alone in the big, dark
library, where dead Wilbur's new silver frame gleamed in the dimness--
there was something that checked even George.
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