"I suppose not; but I am so anxious."
"It will all come right in time, Gareth." But that very trite commonplace had no more soothing effect on her than it often has on wiser folk.
"I suppose I must be patient; but I wish I could do something for myself. I hate being patient. Why can't I go out myself and search for him? I put my hat on once this morning to start."
"I told you before the risk you would run."
"Oh, I know all that, of course," she replied, petulantly. "I've been with you nearly two days and you've done nothing. Two whole long days. And it's so dull here. It's worse than at Sillien."
"Would it have been better had those men taken you?"
She threw her arms round my neck then and burst into tears. "I know how ungrateful I am. I hate myself for it, Christabel. But I did so hope you had brought some news. And I am so disappointed."
I let her cry, knowing the relief which tears bring to such a nature as hers. She soon dried her eyes, and sat down and looked at me, her hands folded demurely on her lap—the picture of pretty meekness.
"How pretty you are, Gareth—with your lovely golden hair, your great blue eyes, and pink and white cheeks."
"Am I?" she asked artlessly, smiling. "Karl used to say that; and I used to love to hear him say it. I only cared to be pretty because he liked it. But I like to hear you say it, too. You see I'm not a bit clever, like you; and one must be either clever or pretty, mustn't one? Karl's both handsome and clever. Oh, so handsome, Christabel. You'll say so when you see him. I wish I had a likeness."