“Change?” repeated Claymore interrogatively, with a quick flash of interest in his eyes despite the studied calmness of his manner.
“Yes. He has n’t been the same since—since—”
“Since when?” the artist inquired, as she hesitated.
“Why, it must be almost ever since we came home and you began to paint him,” Celia returned thoughtfully; “though I confess I have noticed it only lately. Has n’t it struck you?”
Her companion, instead of replying directly, began carefully to examine the carving on the head of his walking-stick.
“You forget how slightly I knew him before,” he said. “What sort of a change do you mean?”
“He has developed. He seems all at once to be becoming a man.”
“He is twenty-eight. It is n’t strange that there should be signs of the man about him, I suppose.”
“But he has always seemed so boyish,” Celia insisted, with the air of one who finds it difficult to make herself understood.
“Very likely something has happened to sober him,” Tom answered, with an effort to speak carelessly, which prevented him from noticing that Celia flushed slightly at his words.