“It isn’t just Bob,” said Mrs. Rosscott. “I’ve someone else on my mind, too.”
“Who, pray?”
“His friend.”
“Young Denham?”
“Yes.”
With that she threw her head up and looked very straightly at her caller whose visage shaded ever so slightly in spite of himself.
“Have his wounds proved serious?” he asked, smiling, but unable to altogether do away with a species of parenthetical inflection in his voice.
“It wasn’t over his wounds that I cried.”
“Did you really cry at all for him?”
“I cried more for him than I did for Bob,” she admitted boldly.