“Thank you,” said Sydney, and the three men took the small tan-gloved hand again, and passed on to their work.
And Sydney passed on also, thinking with a strange, sore feeling in her heart, that Hugh had changed a good deal. He had not even seemed pleased to see her: Hugh—who had been her special friend from babyhood!
Had there ever been a time when Hugh had not wanted her before? She could not recollect it, if there were. How many times had she not sat beside a big, long-limbed school-boy, doing his preparation at the school-room table, with its much-kicked legs and much-inked table cover, and been proud to think she was “helping Hugh” when she blotted his exercises, or held the book, while he reeled off pages in some tongue unknown to her!
Had he ever failed to seem pleased when she offered her assistance, even when he was working with a pucker on his forehead, and ten fingers running through his hair? He had always seemed to want the little Sydney in an inky pinafore, however busy he might be; but now he had changed.
“He did not think he should see her again—he would be very busy.” Could the Hugh of old days have spoken to her in that cool, indifferent tone? Sydney felt sure that he could not. For the first time the girl found the homeward walk too far for her active feet. The distance seemed unending through the Park.
Pauly was very ill, very likely going to die, and Hugh—Hugh did not care to see her any more.
CHAPTER XXI
FEVER-STRICKEN
“Cousin St. Quentin,” Sydney said, coming straight into the library, “I want to tell you that I saw and spoke to Hugh to-day. You must forgive me, please, this time—I won’t again.”