"Don't!" Marjory entreated.
"Poor little woman!" He kissed her brow in tender fashion. Harry was a full year older than Marjory, though in looks four or five years her junior. "Too bad of me, isn't it? I'll never accuse you of being a Stoic, Marjory. And as for Hermione, perhaps you and I agree better than we seem to do on the surface."
"You know very well that nothing would grieve you more than to see her unhappy."
Harry made no response to this. He was so long considering what to say that he ended by not saying anything at all. He knew that Marjory spoke truth; yet quite as truly he could have added, "Except not to see her unhappy when she ought to be so." But this would have pained Marjory; and after all, how could he or any one say that Hermione did not grieve? He could only be sure that she was not overcome by her grief; and the question of being outwardly overcome depends, not only upon kinds and degrees of sorrow, but upon the mode of expression natural to each person in sorrow, upon the condition of health, and upon the strength of will, where that will is bent to the task of self-repression.
Marjory broke the long silence. "Did you speak to Harvey?"
"A few words. There was no need for more."
"He was kind—?"
"Why should he be anything else?" Harry spoke captiously.
"You have heard about his marriage!"
"Harvey Dalrymple's!" Harry spoke in a voice of amazement now, and he stirred himself to an upright posture, as if startled out of his depression.