"No?" scornfully.
"No, not just at first. You see, Blair has been through a rather heavy mill, and he is—well, to put it shortly—rather crushed."
"I understand."
"Yes," slowly, "I imagine that he will fight shy of all his acquaintances for a time, women especially. Why, he can scarcely bring himself to say half-a-dozen civil words to me, his best friend."
"'His best friend!'" she murmured.
"His best friend," he repeated, with emphasis. "So that one must not expect too much from him just yet. In a week or two he will come round, and you will find him only too glad to drop in for afternoon tea."
She looked at him quickly, for there seemed a hidden meaning in his words, commonplace as they were.
He nodded.
"Yes, just that. He will drop in some afternoon and you will, of course, greet him as if you had parted from him only the night before. Make a fuss over him, and he will be off like a frightened hare, and you will lose him. But just receive him with the politeness due to an ordinary acquaintance, and he will not be alarmed. He will get accustomed to dropping in and—and—" he smiled significantly—"any further hint would be superfluous."
She sat silently regarding the fire, with this new hope, the news of Margaret's death, shining softly in her eyes, and he sat watching her.