"I want to talk to you about something. I'm going to ask you to be kinder to me, even, than you've ever been,"—so he approached the subject, while the mingled peace and bitterness of the last thoughts lingered with him. "I'm going to ask you to let me be very indiscreet, very intimate. It's about something very personal."
Valerie no longer smiled, but she looked even more gentle and even more intelligent. "I will be as kind as you can possibly want me to be," she answered.
"It's about—about Miss Upton."
"About Imogen? Don't you call her Imogen yet? You must."
"I will. I've just begun"; and with this avowal Sir Basil turned away his eyes for a moment, and even in the moonlight showed his flush. "I had a long talk with her this afternoon."
"Yes. I supposed that you had. You may be perfectly frank with me," said
Valerie, her eyes on his averted face.
"She was most dreadfully cut up, you know. She came rushing up to the pine woods—I was smoking there—rushing up as if she were running for her life—crying,—exhausted,—in a dreadful state."
"Yes. I know."
"Yes, of course you do. What don't you know and what don't you understand," said Sir Basil gratefully, his eyes coming back to hers. "So I needn't go over it all—what she feels about it. I realize very well that you feel for her as much as I do."
"Oh, yes, you must realize that," said Valerie, a little faintly.