I found him in the library, of late our sole receiving-room; the rest
were closed and fireless. For, since the certainty of our misfortune, we
had received no society, and would not long be obliged to _decline_ it,
Evelyn thought. Her opinion of the world little justified the pains she
had taken to conciliate it.
I found Mr. Bainrothe buried in the deep reading-chair, always in his
lifetime occupied by my father, his hand supporting his head, his hat
and delicate ivory-headed cane thrown carelessly on the floor beside
him--his whole attitude one of deep dejection.
He started a little when I addressed him by name, as if reviving from
deep reverie--then arose and extended his hand to me, grasping mine
firmly when I gave it to him, which I did unwillingly I confess.
"Miriam," he said, "this is all very dreadful!" subsiding into his seat
again with a groan, and looking steadily and silently into the fire for
some minutes afterward. "Very dreadful!" he repeated, shaking his head
dismally; "wholly unforeseen!"
He glanced at me furtively once or twice to observe the effect of his
words--his manner. Disappointed probably by my silence and coolness, he
again affected to be absorbed in contemplation.
"Have we any thing left?" I asked quietly, at last--weary as I was of
this histrionic performance of his, and anxious for the truth.
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