CHAPTER XIX.
A GOLDFISH.
Next day—just in the same way as the day before—when Judith was risen and dressed, the door was thrown open, and again Coppinger was revealed, standing outside, looking at her with a strange expression, and saying no word.
But Judith started up from her chair and went to him in the passage, put forth her delicate white hand, laid it on his cuff, and said: "Mr. Coppinger, may I speak to you?"
"Where?"
"Where you like—down-stairs will be best, in the hall if no one be there."
"It is empty."
He stood aside and allowed her to precede him.
The staircase was narrow, and it would have been dark but for a small dormer-window through which light came from a squally sky covered with driving white vapors. But such light as entered from a white and wan sun fell on her head as she descended—that head of hair was like the splendor of a beech-tree touched by frost before the leaves fall.
Coppinger descended after her.
When they were both in the hall, he indicated his arm-chair by the hearth for her to sit in, and she obeyed. She was weak, and now also nervous. She must speak to the smuggler firmly, and that required all her courage.
The room was tidy; all traces of the debauch of the preceding night had disappeared.
Coppinger stood a few paces from her. He seemed to know that what she was going to say would displease him, and he did not meet her clear eyes, but looked with a sombre frown upon the floor.
Judith put the fingers of her right hand to her heart
