I thought, if I wasn’t pretty, I did look interesting, and original. I looked as if I could think of things; and as if I could feel.
And I was feeling. I was wondering why he had been so good to me lately, unless he cared. Of course it might be for Di’s sake; but I am not so queer-looking that no man could ever be fascinated by me.
They say pity is akin to love. Perhaps he had begun by pitying me, because Di has everything and I nothing; and then, afterwards, he had found out that I was intelligent and sympathetic.
He sat by me and didn’t speak at first. Just then Di passed the far-away, open door of the ballroom, dancing with Lord Robert West, the Duke of Glasgow’s brother.
“Thank you so much for the book,” I said.
(He had sent me a book that morning—one he’d heard me say I wanted.)
He didn’t seem to hear, and then he turned suddenly, with one of his nice smiles. I always think he has the nicest smile in the world: and certainly he has the nicest voice. His eyes looked very kind, and a little sad. I willed him hard to love me.
“It made me happy to get it,” I went on.
“It made me happy to send it,” he said.
“Does it please you to do things for me?” I asked.