His tone was conciliatory, quiet. The expression of his face was—well, not in the least his mask of office-hours, nor the scowling barricade he put up at last night’s dinner-table; but guarded and absolutely non-committal.
So was mine, I hope.
I waited for him to go on.
“I may tell you,” he went on, “that I’ve been regretting—”
Last night, I supposed? A curious way of putting it!
—“regretting for some time that it was you I asked to take on this—this situation for me.”
“Oh!”
We turned and walked back again.
“I mean,” he added quietly, “that I regret having dragged a girl of your kind, more sensitive and spirited than I had imagined—”
What had he imagined, then?