"You don't take any care of yourself, Blair," she said, lightly, though her soul was filled with bitterness at the thought that it was the loss of that "other woman" which had wrought such havoc with him. "Here is your tea; I think I remember how you like it."
"It is first rate," he said. "You always used to make good tea, Vi."
The color mounted to her face at the sound of the familiar name. How long it was since she had heard him use it.
"Did I? It is about the only thing I can do properly."
Then she went on talking in a light and cheerful tone, the sort of talk that exacts almost nothing from the listener—gossip about places and people he knew, the last scandal of the five o'clock teas, pleasant chat, to which he could listen or not, just as he chose. And Blair did not listen all the time, but sat looking at the fire, with his teacup in his hand, and marveling in a dreamy fashion at the faithfulness of women.
This girl—the most hunted heiress in London, pretty, accomplished, every way desirable, whom he had neglected, almost deserted—received him as if he had been most devoted and steadfast. It was wonderful!
His heart smote him, and he felt drawn toward her in a curious kind of way.
After all, it is to the women men go when trouble smites them. There is no heart so tender, no sympathy so sure as that of a woman.
"Oh, woman, in our hours of ease.
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please—
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!"
What a brute he had been not to come near her all this time! he thought, and under the impulse of his self-reproach he felt inclined to tell her all.