"Yes, of course. And yet it's difficult for love to keep itself where it belongs when it's very—very consuming."
He leaned back in his chair, eying her. If he spoke roughly it was only because she had roused all his emotions on his own behalf, as well as a faint subconscious interest in herself. "Look here, Miss Bland. How much do you know about this?"
"Oh, I know all about it," she assured him, hurrying to explain, in answer to something she saw in his face: "Uncle Emery didn't tell me. I read it first in the papers—you remember there was a lot of talk about it in the papers—and then every one was talking of it. I couldn't help knowing. Uncle Emery," she added, "only told me one tiny little thing, which couldn't do any one any harm."
"And that was—?"
"Miss Clare's address. I asked him for it when I found that I—that I wanted to go and see her."
"And why on earth should you want to go and see her—a young girl like you?"
Her blush was like a color from outside reflected in the soft luster of her skin as a tint of sunset may be caught by the petals of certain white flowers.
"I had a reason. It wasn't doing any one any harm," she repeated, "not even you." In further self-defense she added: "Uncle Emery didn't disapprove, and I've never told Aunt Zena. But I've always been glad I went—very."
"Why?"
"Because she's a sort of charge of Uncle Emery's, for one thing—since you've put her in his care. I help him a little bit. And then the sister she lives with—you knew we'd got her to live with her sister, didn't you?—isn't very kind to her. It's just the money. And then," she continued, the soft color deepening, "I had another reason—more personal—that I'd rather not say anything about."