I consequently held my peace. We did talk on a little longer,
but it was more general talk that avoided successfully our hostess, the
paintings, wild theories, and him--until at length the emotion Frances
had hitherto so successfully kept under burst vehemently forth again.
It had hidden between her calm sentences, as it had hidden between the
lines of her letter. It swept her now from head to foot, packed tight in
the thing she then said.
"Then, Bill, if it is not an ordinary haunted house," she asked, "what
is it?"
The words were commonplace enough. The emotion was in the tone of her
voice that trembled; in the gesture she made, leaning forward and
clasping both hands upon her knees, and in the slight blanching of her
cheeks as her brave eyes asked the question and searched my own with
anxiety that bordered upon panic. In that moment she put herself under
my protection. I winced.
"And why," she added, lowering her voice to a still and furtive whisper,
"does nothing ever happen? If only,"--this with great emphasis--
"something would happen--break this awful tension--bring relief. It's
the waiting I cannot stand." And she shivered all over as she said it, a
touch of wildness in her eyes.
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