Ailsa, glancing again at his profile, saw nothing now in it
resembling Berkley; and, as he made no response, thought him
uninterested. But when again she would have changed the subject,
the Colonel stirred, interrupting:
"Does he seem--well?"
"Well?" she repeated. "Oh, yes."
"He--seems well . . . and in good spirits? Contented? Is he that
type of young man? Happy?"
"I don't think he is really very happy, though he is cheerful
and--and amusing. I don't see how he can be very light-hearted."
"Why?"
She shook her head:
"I believe he--I know he must be in painfully straightened
circumstances."
"I have heard so," nodded Colonel Arran.
"Oh, he certainly _is_!" she said with decision. "He lost
everything in the panic, and he lives in a most wretched
neighbourhood, and he hasn't any business except a very little now
and then. It made me quite unhappy," she added naively.
"And you find him personally agreeable?"
"Yes, I do. I didn't at first--" She checked herself--"I mean I
_did_ at the very first--then I didn't--then I did again, then
I--didn't--" The delicate colour stole into her cheeks; she lifted
her wineglass, looked into it pensively, set it back on the table.
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