Kitabı oku: «The Everlasting Arms», sayfa 18

The housekeeper was fairly launched now, and was prepared to discuss the Stanmores at length, but Dick hurried away. He would have loved to have gone over the house, but he dared not; besides, in a way he could not understand, he longed to get into the open air, longed to be alone.

"I hope, oh, I do hope that something'll happen," said the housekeeper as he left the house; but what she did not tell him.

A little later Dick found himself on the drive leading to Hugh Stanmore's cottage. He had not intended to take this road, but when he realised that he was in it, he did not turn back. Rather he hurried on with almost feverish footsteps.

Sir George Weston had been spending a week at the cottage, had he? Why? Was it because he was an Egyptologist, and interested in Hugh Stanmore's previous researches, or was he there because of Beatrice, as the servants' gossip said? It was nothing to him, but he had an overwhelming desire to know. Was Beatrice Stanmore a beautiful girl? She had not appealed to him in this light when her grandfather brought her to see him months before; but girls often blossomed into beauty suddenly. Still, wasn't it strange that Weston should stay at the cottage a week?

Of course he would not call. He was simply taking the longer road to the station. Yes, he could plainly see the house through the trees, and —

"Is that Mr. Faversham? Well, this is a surprise; but I am glad to see you."

It was old Hugh Stanmore who spoke, while Dick in a strangely nervous way took the proffered hand.

"Come to look at your old house, eh? I see you've come from that direction."

"Yes, I have been – talking with my old housekeeper," he stammered.

"And you've never been here before since – you left?"

Dick shook his head.

"Well, well, life's a strange business, isn't it? But come in, my dear fellow. You're just in time for lunch."

Dick began to make excuses, but the other refused to listen, and they entered the cottage together.

"I'm afraid I couldn't presume upon your kindness so far."

"Kindness! Nonsense. Of course you must. Besides, I see that you are a Member of Parliament, and a Labour Member too. I must talk with you about it. Lunch will be on the table in five minutes."

"You are sure I shouldn't be bothering you?" He had an overwhelming desire to stay.

"Bother! What bother can there be? I'm only too delighted to see you. Come in."

They entered the cottage together.

"Oh, by the way," went on Hugh Stanmore, as they entered a cosy sitting-room, "let me introduce you to Sir George Weston."

A strikingly handsome man of about thirty rose from an arm-chair and held out his hand. He was in mufti; but it was impossible to mistake him for anything but a soldier. Head erect, shoulders squared, and a military bearing proclaimed him to be what he was.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Faversham," said Sir George heartily "I suppose you've come down to see – " He stopped abruptly. He felt he had made a faux pas.

"It's all right," said Dick with a laugh. He felt perfectly at ease now. "Yes, I came to see the old place which years ago I thought was mine. You've heard all about it, I've no doubt?"

"Jolly hard luck," sympathised Sir George. "But anyhow you – "

"Ah, here's Beatrice," broke in Hugh Stanmore. "Beatrice, my dear, here's an old friend dropped in to lunch with us. You remember Mr. Faversham, don't you?"

The eyes of the two met, and then as their hands met Dick's friendly feeling towards Sir George Weston left him. He could not tell why.

CHAPTER XXXII
Beatrice Confesses

Dick Faversham saw at a glance that Beatrice Stanmore had ceased being a child. She was barely twenty. She was girlish in appearance, and her grandfather seemed to still regard her as a child. But her childhood had gone, and her womanhood had come. Rather tall, and with a lissom form, she had all a girl's movements, all a girl's sweetness, but the flash of her eyes, the compression of her lips, the tones of her voice, all told that she had left her childhood behind. But the first blush of her womanhood still remained. She retained her child's naturalness and winsomeness, even while she looked at the world through the eyes of a woman.

Dick was struck by her beauty too. When years before she had rushed into the library at Wendover, almost breathless in her excitement, she had something of the angularity, almost awkwardness, of half-development. That had all gone. Every movement was graceful, natural. Perfect health, health of body, health of mind had stamped itself upon her. She had no suggestion of the cigarette-smoking, slang-talking miss who boasts of her freedom from old-time conventions. You could not think of Beatrice Stanmore sitting with men, smoking, sipping liqueurs, and laughing at their jokes. She retained the virginal simplicity of childlikeness. All the same she was a woman. But not a woman old beyond her years. Not a woman who makes men give up their thoughts of the sacredness of womanhood.

No one could any more think of Beatrice Stanmore being advanced, or "fast," than one could think of a rosebud just opening its petals to the sun being "fast."

She had none of the ripe beauty of Lady Blanche Huntingford, much less the bold splendour of Olga Petrovic. She was too much the child of nature for that. She was too sensitive, too maidenly in her thoughts and actions. And yet she was a woman, with all a woman's charm.

Here lay her power. She was neither insipid nor a prude. She dared to think for herself, she loved beautiful dresses, she enjoyed pleasure and gaiety; but all without losing the essential quality of womanhood – purity and modesty. She reminded one of Russell Lowell's lines:

 
"A dog rose blushing to a brook
Ain't modester, nor sweeter."
 

That was why no man, however blasé, however cynical about women, could ever associate her with anything loud or vulgar. She was not neurotic; her healthy mind revolted against prurient suggestion either in conversation or in novels. She was not the kind of girl who ogled men, or practised unwomanly arts to attract their attention. No man, however bold, would dream of taking liberties with her. But she was as gay as a lark, her laughter was infectious, the flash of her eyes suggested all kinds of innocent mischief and fun. She could hold her own at golf, was one of the best tennis players in the district, and could ride with gracefulness and fearlessness.

Does someone say I am describing an impossible prodigy? No, I am trying to describe a sweet, healthy, natural girl. I am trying to tell of her as she appeared to me when I saw her first, a woman such as I believe God intended all women to be, womanly, pure, modest.

She was fair to look on too; fair with health and youth and purity. A girl with laughing eyes, light brown hair, inclined to curl. A sweet face she had, a face which glowed with health, and was unspoilt by cosmetics. A tender, sensitive mouth, but which told of character, of resolution and daring. A chin firm and determined, and yet delicate in outline. This was Beatrice Stanmore, who, reared among the sweet Surrey hills and valleys, was unsmirched by the world's traffic, and who recoiled from the pollution of life which she knew existed. A girl modern in many respects, but not too modern to love old-fashioned courtesies, not too modern to keep holy the Sabbath Day, and love God with simple faith. A religious girl, who never paraded religion, and whose religion never made her monkish and unlovely, but was the joy and inspiration of her life.

"I'm so glad to see you, Mr. Faversham," she said. "I've often wondered why you never came to Wendover."

"In a way it was very hard to keep away," was Dick's reply. "On the other hand, I had a kind of dread of seeing it again. You see, I had learnt to love it."

"I don't wonder. It's the dearest old house in the world. I should have gone mad, I think, if I'd been in your place. It was just splendid of you to take your reverse so bravely."

"I had only one course before me, hadn't I?"

"Hadn't you? I've often wondered." She gave him a quick, searching glance as she spoke. "Are you staying here long?"

"No, only a few hours. I return to London this afternoon. I came down to-day just on impulse. I had no reason for coming."

"Hadn't you? I'm glad you came."

"So am I."

There was a strange intensity in his tones, but he did not know why he spoke with so much feeling.

"Of course Granddad and I have often talked of you," she went on. "Do you know when we called on you that day in London, I was disappointed in you. I don't know why. You had altered so much. You did not seem at all like you were when we saw you down here. I told Granddad so. But I'm so glad you are Member of Parliament for Eastroyd, and so glad you've called. There, the lunch is ready. Please remember, Mr. Faversham, that I'm housekeeper, and am responsible for lunch. If you don't like it, I shall be offended."

She spoke with all the freedom and frankness of a child, but Dick was not slow to recognise the fact that the child who had come to Wendover when Romanoff was weaving a web of temptation around him, had become a woman who could no longer be treated as a child.

"Are you hungry, Sir George?" she went on, turning to her other visitor. "Do you know, Mr. Faversham, that these two men have neglected me shamefully? They have been so interested in rubbings of ancient inscriptions, and writings on the tombs of Egyptian kings, that they've forgotten that I've had to cudgel my poor little brains about what they should eat. Housekeeping's no easy matter in these days."

"That's not fair," replied Sir George. "It was Mr. Stanmore here, who was so interested that he forgot all about meal-times."

The soldier was so earnest that he angered Dick. "Why couldn't the fool take what she said in the spirit of raillery?" he asked himself.

"Adam over again," laughed Beatrice. "'The woman tempted me and I did eat.' It's always somebody else's fault. Now then, Granddad, serve the fish."

It was a merry little party that sat down to lunch, even although Dick did not seem inclined for much talk. Old Hugh Stanmore was in great good-humour, while Beatrice had all the high spirits of a happy, healthy girl.

"You must stay a few hours now you are here, Mr. Faversham," urged the old man presently. "There's not the slightest reason why you should go back to town by that four something train. It's true, Sir George and I are going over to Pitlock Rectory for a couple of hours, but we shall be back for tea, and you and Beatrice can get on all right while we are away."

Sir George did not look at all delighted at the suggestion, but Beatrice was warm in her support of it.

"You really must, Mr. Faversham," she said. "I shall be alone all the afternoon otherwise, for really I can't bear the idea of listening to Mr. Stanhope, the Rector of Pitlock, prose about mummies and fossils and inscriptions."

"You know I offered to stay here," pleaded Sir George.

"As though I would have kept you and Granddad away from your fossils," she laughed. "Mr. Stanhope is a great scholar, a great Egyptologist, and a great antiquary, and you said it would be your only chance of seeing him, as you had to go to the War Office to-morrow. So you see, Mr. Faversham, that you'll be doing a real act of charity by staying with me. Besides, there's something I want to talk with you about. There is really."

Sir George did not look at all happy as, after coffee, he took his seat beside old Hugh Stanmore, in the little motor-car, but Dick Faversham's every nerve tingled with pleasure at the thought of spending two or three hours alone with Beatrice. Her transparent frankness and naturalness charmed him, the whole atmosphere of the cottage was so different from that to which for years he had been accustomed.

"Mr. Faversham," she said, when they had gone, "I want you to walk with me to the great house, will you?"

"Certainly," he said, wondering all the time why she wanted to go there.

"You don't mind, do you? I know it must be painful to you, but – but I want you to."

"Of course I will. It's no longer mine – it never was mine, but it attracts me like a magnet."

Five minutes later they were walking up the drive together. Dick was supremely happy, yet not knowing why he was happy. Everything he saw was laden with poignant memories, while the thought of returning to the house cut him like a knife. Yet he longed to go. For some little distance they walked in silence, then she burst out suddenly.

"Mr. Faversham, do you believe in premonitions?"

"Yes."

"So do I. It is that I wanted to talk with you about."

He did not reply, but his mind flashed back to the night when he had sat alone with Count Romanoff, and Beatrice Stanmore had suddenly and without warning rushed into the room.

"Do you believe in angels?" she went on.

"I – I think so."

"I do. Granddad is not sure about it. That is, he isn't sure that they appear. Sir George is altogether sceptical. He pooh-poohs the whole idea. He says there was a mistake about the Angels at Mons. He says it was imagination, and all that sort of thing; but he isn't a bit convincing. But I believe."

"Yes." He spoke almost unconsciously. He had never uttered a word about his own experiences to anyone, and he wondered if he should tell her what he had seen and heard.

"It was a kind of premonition which made me go to see you years ago," she said quietly. "Do you remember?"

"I shall never forget, and I'm very glad."

"Why are you very glad?"

"Because – because I'm sure your coming helped me!"

"How did it help you?"

"It helped me to see, to feel; I – I can't quite explain."

"That man – Count Romanoff – is evil," and she shuddered as she spoke.

"Why do you say so?"

"I felt it. I feel it now. He was your enemy. Have you seen him since?"

"Only once. I was walking through Oxford Circus. I only spoke a few words to him; I have not seen him since."

"Mr. Faversham, did anything important happen that night?"

"Yes, that night – and the next."

"Did that man, Count Romanoff, want you to do something which – which was wrong? Forgive me for asking, won't you? But I have felt ever since that it was so."

"Yes." He said the word slowly, doubtfully. At that moment the old house burst upon his view, and he longed with a great longing to possess it. He felt hard and bitter that a man like Tony Riggleton should first have made it a scene of obscene debauchery and then have left it. It seemed like sacrilege that such a man should be associated with it. At that moment, too, it seemed such a little thing that Romanoff had asked him to do.

"If I had done what he asked me, I might have been the owner of Wendover Park now," he added.

"But how could that be, if that man Riggleton was the true heir?" she asked.

"At that time there seemed – doubt. He made me feel that Riggleton had no right to be there, and if I had promised the Count something, I might have kept it."

"And that something was wrong?"

"Yes, it was wrong. Of course I am speaking to you in absolute confidence," he added. "When you came you made me see things as they really were."

"I was sent," she said simply.

"By whom?"

"I don't know. And do you remember when I came the second time?"

"Yes, I remember. I shall never forget."

"I never felt like it before or since. Something seemed to compel me to hasten to you. I got out the car in a few seconds, and I simply flew to you. I have thought since that you must have been angry, that you must have looked upon me as a mad girl to rush in on you the way I did. But I could not help myself. That evil man, Romanoff, was angry with me too; he would have killed me if he had dared. Do you remember that we talked about angels afterwards?"

"I remember."

"They were all around us. I felt sure of it. I seemed to see them. Afterwards, while I was sorry for you, I felt glad you had left Wendover, glad that you were no longer its owner. I had a kind of impression that while you were losing the world, you were saving your soul."

She spoke with all a child's simplicity, yet with a woman's earnestness. She asked no questions as to what Romanoff had asked him to do in order to keep his wealth; that did not seem to come within her scope of things. Her thought was that Romanoff was evil, and she felt glad that Dick had resisted the evil.

"Do you believe in angels?" she asked again.

"Sometimes," replied Dick. "Do you?"

"I have no doubt about them. I know my mother often came to me."

"How? I don't quite understand. You never saw her – in this world I mean – did you?"

"No. But she has come to me. For years I saw her in dreams. More than once, years ago, when I woke up in the night, I saw her hovering over me."

"That must have been fancy."

"No, it was not." She spoke with calm assurance, and with no suggestion of morbidness or fear. "Why should I not see her?" she went on. "I am her child, and if she had lived she would have cared for me, fended for me, because she loved me. Why should what we call death keep her from doing that still, only in a different way?"

Dick was silent a few seconds. It did not seem at all strange.

"No; there seems no real reason why, always assuming that there are angels, and that they have the power to speak to us. But there is something I would like to ask you. You said just now, 'I know that my mother often came to me.' Has she ceased coming?"

Beatrice Stanmore's eyes seemed filled with a great wonder, but she still spoke in the same calm assured tones.

"I have not seen her for three years," she said; "not since the day after you left Wendover. She told me then that she was going farther away for a time, and would not be able to speak to me, although she would allow no harm to happen to me. Since that time I have never seen her. But I know she loves me still. It may be that I shall not see her again in this life, but sometime, in God's own good time, we shall meet."

"Are you a Spiritualist?" asked Dick, and even as he spoke he felt that he had struck a false note.

She shook her head decidedly. "No, I should hate the thought of using mediums and that sort of thing to talk to my mother. There may be truth in it, or there may not; but to me it seems tawdry, sordid. But I've no doubt about the angels. I think there are angels watching over you. It's a beautiful thought, isn't it?"

"Isn't it rather morbid?" asked Dick.

"Why should it be morbid? Is the thought that God is all around us morbid? Why then should it be morbid to think of the spirits of those He has called home being near to help us, to watch over us?"

"No," replied Dick; "but if there are good angels why may there not be evil ones?"

"I believe there are," replied the girl. "I am very ignorant and simple, but I believe there are. Did not Satan tempt our Lord in the wilderness? And after the temptation was over, did not angels minister to Him?"

"So the New Testament says."

"Do you not believe it to be true?"

CHAPTER XXXIII
Sir George's Love Affair

The great house stood out boldly against the wintry sky, and Dick Faversham could plainly see the window of the room where, years before, he had taken the pen to sign the paper which would have placed him in Count Romanoff's power. Like lightning his mind flashed back to the fateful hour. He saw himself holding the pen, saw the words which Romanoff had written standing clearly out on the white surface, saw himself trying to trace the letters of his name, and then he felt the hand on his wrist. It was only a light touch, but he no longer had the power to write.

Was it a moral impulse which had come to him, or was it some force which paralysed his senses, and made him incapable of holding the pen? It seemed to be both. He remembered having a loathing for the thing Romanoff wanted him to do. Even then he felt like shuddering at the dark influences which sapped his will-power, and made wrong seem like right. But there was more than that. Some force outside himself kept him from writing.

And he was glad. True, he was a poor man, and instead of owning the stately mansion before him, he would presently return to his tiny flat, where he would have to calculate about every sixpence he spent. But he was free; he was master of his soul. He was a man of some importance too. He was the Labour Member for Eastroyd; he had secured the confidence of many thousands of working people, and his voice was listened to with much respect by Labour leaders, and in Labour conferences.

But he was not quite satisfied. He did not want to be the representative of one class only, but of all classes. He remembered that he had been lately spoken of as being "too mealy-mouthed," and as "having too much sympathy with the employers."

"A voting machine at four hundred a year!"

Romanoff's words still stung him, wounded him. He longed for a larger life, longed to speak for all classes, longed to mingle with those of his own upbringing and education.

"What are you thinking of?"

For the moment he had forgotten the girl at his side, almost forgotten the subject they had been discussing.

"Of many things," he replied.

"You were thinking of that man, Count Romanoff."

"Was I? Yes, I suppose I was. How did you know?"

"Telepathy," she replied. "Shall we go back?"

"If you will. Did you not say you wanted to go to the house?"

"I don't think I do now. I'm afraid it would be painful to you. But, Mr. Faversham, I'm glad I helped you; glad you do not own Wendover Park."

"So am I," he replied; "the price would have been too terrible."

She looked at him questioningly. She did not quite understand his words.

"I wonder if you would think it an impertinence if I asked you to promise me something," she said.

"Nothing you could ask would be an impertinence," he responded eagerly; "nothing."

"That Count Romanoff is evil," she said, "evil; I am sure he is. I know nothing about him, but I am sure of what I say. Will you promise to have nothing to do with him? I think you will meet him again. I don't know why, but I have a feeling that you will. That is why I wanted to say this, and I wanted to say it in sight of the house which you love."

"I promise," replied Dick. "It is very good of you to have so much interest in me."

"In a way, I don't know that I have very much interest," she said simply; "and I'm afraid I'm acting on impulse. Granddad says that that is my weakness."

"I don't think it is a weakness. I'm not likely to see Count Romanoff again; but I promise, gladly promise, that if I do I'll yield to him in nothing. Is that what you mean?"

"Yes, that's what I mean."

Her humour suddenly changed. She seemed to have no further interest in Wendover Park, or its possessor, whoever it might be, and their conversation became of the most commonplace nature. They chatted about the possibilities of peace, the future of Germany, and the tremendous problems Britain would have to face, but all interest in the question which had engrossed her mind seemed to have left her. Dick was to her only an ordinary acquaintance who had casually crossed the pathway of her life, and who might never do so again. Indeed, as presently they reached the highroad, he thought she became cold and reserved, it might seem, too, that he somewhat bored her.

Presently they heard the sound of horses' hoofs coming toward them, and they saw a lady on horseback.

"That's Lady Blanche Huntingford," she said; "do you know her?"

"I did know her slightly," replied Dick, who felt no excitement whatever on seeing her.

"Oh yes, of course you did. She's a great beauty, isn't she?"

"I suppose so." Dick remembered how, in London months before, she had refused to recognise him.

For a moment Lady Blanche seemed surprised at seeing Dick. She scrutinised him closely, as if she was not quite sure it was he. Then her colour heightened somewhat, and with a nod which might have embraced them both, she passed on.

"We must get back to the house," Beatrice said; "Granddad and Sir George will have returned by this time, and they will want their tea."

"Sir George is leaving you to-morrow, isn't he?" asked Dick.

"Yes," she replied, and Dick's heart grew heavy as he saw the look in her eyes. He did not know why.

"He's a great soldier, I suppose? I think I've been told so."

"The greatest and bravest man in the army," she replied eagerly. "He's simply splendid. It's not often that a soldier is a scholar, but Granddad says there are few men alive who are greater authorities on Egyptian questions."

A feeling of antagonism rose in Dick's heart against Sir George Weston, he felt angry that Beatrice should think so highly of him.

"He's a Devonshire man, isn't he?" he asked.

"Yes; he has a lovely old place down there. The house is built of grey granite. It is very, very old, and it looks as though it would last for hundreds and hundreds of years. It is situated on a wooded hillside, and at the back, above the woods, is a vast stretch of moorland. In front is a lovely park studded with old oaks."

"You describe the place with great enthusiasm." There was envy in his tones, and something more than envy.

"Do I? I love Devonshire. Love its granite tors, its glorious hills and valleys. No wonder it is called 'Glorious Devon.'"

By the time they reached the cottage Sir George Weston and Hugh Stanmore had returned, and tea was on the table. Sir George seemed somewhat excited, while old Hugh Stanmore was anything but talkative. It might seem as though, during the afternoon, the two had talked on matters of greater interest than the tombs of Egyptian kings.

When the time came for Dick to depart, Hugh Stanmore said he would walk a little way with him. For a happy, and singularly contented man, he appeared much disturbed.

"I am so glad you came, Mr. Faversham," said Beatrice as she bade him good-bye. "We had a lovely walk, hadn't we?"

"Wonderful," replied Dick. "I shall never forget it."

"And you'll not forget your promise, will you?"

"No, I shall not forget it."

"You will let us know, won't you, when you are going to speak in the House of Commons? I shall insist on Granddad taking me to hear you."

Sir George Weston looked from one to the other suspiciously. He could not understand her interest in him.

"What do you think of Weston?" asked Hugh Stanmore, when they had walked some distance together.

"I suppose he's a very fine soldier," evaded Dick.

"Oh yes, there's no doubt about that. But how did he strike you – personally?"

"I'm afraid I didn't pay much attention to him. He seemed a pleasant kind of man." Dick felt very non-committal. "Do you know him well?"

"Yes; fairly well. I met him before the war. He and I were interested in the same subjects. He has travelled a great deal in the East. Of course I've known of his family all my life. A very old family which has lived in the same house for generations. I think he is the eighth baronet. But I was not thinking of that. I was thinking of him as a man. You'll forgive my asking you, won't you, but do you think he could make my little girl happy?"

Dick felt a strange weight on his heart. He felt bitter too.

"I am afraid my opinion would be of little value," he replied. "You see I know nothing of him, neither for that matter am I well acquainted with Miss Stanmore."

"No, I suppose that's true, and perhaps I ought not to have asked you. I often scold Beatrice for acting so much on impulse, while I am constantly guilty of the same offence. But I don't look on you as a stranger. Somehow I seem to know you well, and I wanted your opinion. I can speak freely to you, can't I?"

"Certainly."

"He has asked me this afternoon if I'll consent to Beatrice becoming his wife."

Dick was silent. He felt he could not speak.

"Of course, from a worldly standpoint it would be a good match," went on Hugh Stanmore. "Sir George is a rich man, and has a fine reputation, not only as a scholar and a soldier, but as a man. There has never been a blemish on his reputation. He stands high in the county, and could give my little girl a fine position."

"Doubtless," and Dick hardly knew that he spoke.

"I don't think I am a snob," went on the old man; "but such things must weigh somewhat. I am not a pauper, but, as wealth is counted to-day, I am a poor man. I am also old, and in the course of nature can't be here long. That is why I am naturally anxious about my little Beatrice's future. And yet I am in doubt."

"About what?"

"Whether he could make her happy. And that is everything as far as I am concerned. Beatrice, as you must have seen, is just a happy child of nature, and is as sensitive as a lily. To be wedded to a man who is not – how shall I put it? – her affinity, her soul comrade, would be lifelong misery to her. And unless I were sure that Sir George is that, I would not think of giving my consent."

"Aren't you forgetful of a very important factor?" asked Dick.

"What is that?"

"Miss Stanmore herself. In these days girls seem to take such matters largely into their own hands. The consent of relations is regarded as a very formal thing."

"I don't think you understand, Faversham. Beatrice is not like the common run of girls, and she and I are so much to each other that I don't think for a moment that she would marry any man if I did not give my sanction. In fact, I'm sure she wouldn't. She's only my granddaughter, but she's all the world to me, while – yes, I am everything to her. No father loved a child more than I love her. I've had her since she was a little mite, and I've been father, mother, and grandfather all combined. And I'd do anything, everything in my power for her welfare. I know her – know her, Faversham; she's as pure and unsullied as a flower."

"But, of course, Sir George Weston has spoken to her?"

"No, he hasn't. For one thing, he has very strict ideas about old-fashioned courtesies, and, for another, he knows our relations to each other."

"Do you know her mind? – know whether she cares for him – in that way?" asked Dick.

"No, I don't. I do know that, a week ago, she had no thought of love for any man. But, of course, I couldn't help seeing that during the past week he has paid her marked attention. Whether she's been aware of it, I haven't troubled to ascertain."