“I care for her—in a different way, but it’s quite a real way. And when I go back home, it may be—you know what I wish to say. I’m telling you because I don’t wish you to think I’m disloyal to you”—his expression was half-satirical, half-mournful—“or to her either.”
“I appreciate your telling me,” she said. “But I’d have understood, if you hadn’t. I believe I recognise a man when I see him, and—you know that’s what I think you.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I dare say I’m much like other people. I show everyone the side that matches the side they show me.”
After a moment he went to her and lifted her hand and kissed it. She stood and turned her face, sweet and friendly, up to him. “I’d rather you’d kiss me,” she said.
He winced and paled and let go her hand. “No, thanks,” he replied. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not.”
With this Mr. Barney bustled into the room—no one had ever seen him make a slow movement of any kind. At sight of them standing thus suspiciously, he halted and, as they flushed and moved apart, he laughed in such a way that Nelly felt impelled to explain:
“I was talking to Lord Frothingham of my engagement, and he was congratulating me.”
“Bless my soul!” ejaculated Barney. “This is news!”
“I haven’t had a chance to tell you, father. It’s Mr. Worthington.”
Barney seemed depressed. “Well—I guess he’s all right,” he said slowly. “I’ve got nothing against him. But——”