He looked away from her and it was black before him for an instant. “That fairish chap with the eyes—Mr. Worthington?” he asked, cutting his words off sharp.
She nodded, her cheeks bright. “I simply couldn’t help it,” she said. “He was what I longed to be. And he didn’t preach the things I believed in—he just lived them.”
They were silent until they were in the car, then she went on: “I don’t want you to misunderstand. He has never even looked—what I’d like him to look—and say. I don’t know whether he cares—probably not. Sometimes I think he cares only for his work, and——”
“He does care—I saw it,” interrupted Frothingham, and then he was astonished at himself for being so “ridiculously decent.”
“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “Thank you for saying so.” She looked at him shyly. “You’ll think me queer for telling you about it when he has said nothing to me.”
“I take to it like a duck to water”
“I understand why you tell me,” Frothingham answered. “It was—like you.” He smiled faintly, his frequent, self-satirising smile. “Don’t mind me. I’m used to bad luck. I take to it like a duck to water.”
Nelly’s instinct told her that she had said enough, and they rode in silence. When she spoke again it was of the dance to which they were going that night. An hour and a half later as they were separating for dinner he said earnestly: “Thank you for what you said. And thank you—even more—for what you didn’t say.”