But Lionel, poor Lionel, had always had an almost morbid wish to be liked--to stand well with people, so she told herself with a strange feeling of pain at her heart.
They walked back together into the house, and Blanche, going over to the fire-place, poured herself out another cup of tea.
In a sense she still felt as if she was living through a terrible, unreal dream, and yet it was an unutterable relief to be no longer obliged to pretend.
She glanced furtively at Varick.
He looked calm, cheerful, collected.

"Will you excuse me for a few moments?
I have got several things to do," he said.

"Then I think I will go out and tramp about for a bit.

It's been a strain for you as well as for me, Blanche," he added sympathetically.
"Yes, it has," she answered almost inaudibly.
"Is there anything I can get you ?" he asked.

"Will you be quite comfortable ?" She repeated, mechanically: "Quite comfortable, thank you, Lionel," and then, as an after-thought: "I suppose we shall dine at the same time as usual ?" "Certainly--why not ?" He looked puzzled at her question.