Still she was conscious of a certain power possessed by Evelyn over Jem's spirits—like the power of greater or less air-pressure on the mercury of a thermometer. Evelyn herself did not know it; but her touch in a moment sent his mercury up or down. When this particular look came, a look of strain and weariness, with indented hollows in cheek and brow, Jean never could resist an instinctive recurrence of thought to Evelyn. Had Evelyn said or done something to worry him?
Aloud Jean said nothing, and Jem went back to his writing, but the effort of work was manifest. Twice there was a renewed break; and she saw his hand steal over the thick hair, already streaked with grey.
"I wish you would give in, and take an hour's rest," she murmured.
"Too much to do! I am behind-hand as it is."
"Jean, dear, I do so like the way you do your hair now," interposed Mrs. Trevelyan, who had been sleepily speculating about "dear Jem's" possible future, and why a particular arrangement might not come to pass.
"Don't you, Jem?"
Jem laughed, and said, "Very neat."
"It shows the shape of her head so nicely. Jean has such a well-shaped head. The bumps are all in good proportion."
Jean's pen went vigorously.
"She has such an amount of veneration. I can't endure a flat head. It always means a small poor conceited nature. Jean's head at the top is like—"