"Do you mind very much?" she asked shyly.
"I'll do anything you like about it." He caressed her hand gently, kindly. He had at least the grace to feel shame for himself, pity for her—when he was with her.
"Harry, are you quite—quite happy?"
He made his effort. "I should be as happy as the day's long if it weren't for those wretched meetings that take up half my time." His voice grew fretful. "And they worry me to death."
"They'll soon be over now, and then we can have all the time to ourselves together." She looked at him with a smile. "If only you won't get tired of that!"
He made his protest. Suddenly a memory of other protests swept over him—of how they had begun by being wholehearted and vehement, and had sunk first to weakness, then to insincerity, at last to silence. He hoped his present protest sounded all right.
"Oh, you needn't be too vehement!" she laughed, with a little shake of her head. "I know myself, and I believe I know more about you than you think. I'm quite aware that you'll sometimes be bored with me, Harry."
"Who's put that idea in your head?" he asked rather sharply. His mind was on those enemies, that ring of watching eyes.
"Nobody except yourself—who else should?" she asked in surprise. "After all I've seen of you, I ought to know that you have your moods—I suppose clever men have—and that I don't suit all the moods equally well." She squeezed his hand for a second. "But I'm going to be very wise—Isobel's taught me to be wise, among other things, you know—I'm going to be very wise, and not mind that!"
The true affection rose in him. "Poor little sweetheart!" he murmured. "I'm afraid you haven't taken on an easy job."