Antonia considered, and he knew while she considered, her eyes on the azalea silk, that he filled her again with deep delight. He and his passion were there, encompassing, yet not pursuing her. She gave nothing and betrayed nothing and she was secure of all.
“I don’t think she could hate me. That sounds fatuous; but I believe it’s true. I don’t know about you. But no; I don’t think she’d resent it. Why should she?”
“Well, caring for him so much and seeing me here in his place.”
“How brave you are, Bevis,” said Antonia after a moment, drawing out her silk. It was the quality in him to which she most often reverted.
“Am I? Why?”
“You are not afraid to remind me.”
“Why should I be afraid? I know your thoughts. But I’m not going to talk about them, or about mine. I want you to explain Miss Latimer.”
“There’s not much to explain. She shows it all, I think. She’s deep and narrow and simple. You don’t like her. I can see that.”
“I can’t imagine how. I’m constantly making myself agreeable.”
“To me; not to her. She knows as well as I do why you take trouble over her. Not that I blame you. I didn’t think I should like her when I first saw her. And then I came to find that I did; more and more; very, very much. Or, perhaps, it is trust, rather than liking,” Antonia mused. “Poor little Cicely. Do you know, I don’t think any one has ever really liked her much. Not old Mrs. Wellwood, really, nor even Malcolm. It hurt me to feel, in a moment, that Mrs. Wellwood liked even me, whom she hardly knew, better.”