“And that’s a rather big exception, isn’t it?” St. Quentin said. “You haven’t got much cause to like me, Sydney.”
Something in the sadness of his tone appealed to her pity.
“I do care about you!” she said. “You say those horrid things about the Chichesters just because you don’t understand, that’s all. Some day, perhaps, you will know that one couldn’t give up loving people, even if one tried. But I do care about you, really! I think you are the very bravest person that I ever met!”
St. Quentin did not answer for a minute, and when he spoke, though it was lightly, his voice was not quite so steady as usual.
“Is it very rude to suggest to a lady, who is going to reach the advanced age of eighteen in a few days’ time, that her experience of life may possibly be limited?” he said. “My dear child, I regret to say you’re out in your conception of my character. I am a coward. Of course, I hope one is enough of a man not to make a fuss over the inevitable, by which I mean the consequences of my motor-smash. What is, is, and only fools whine over it. But for all that, I’m a coward. There, let’s talk of something else!” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Tell me what you like.”
And Sydney told him about Lady Frederica and her present; about Pauly and the hymn; and everything else she could think of that might amuse or interest him.
She told of the knobby parcels they had taken round the village in the pony-carriage yesterday, and of the fright of one old woman when a rolled-up pair of thick stockings had slipped from Sydney’s over-laden arms, and gone rolling across the kitchen floor to her very feet.
Suddenly she stopped her merry talk, and her eyes took a thoughtful expression.
“What are you thinking of?” her cousin asked, looking across at the creamy-gowned figure in the brown chair.
“I was thinking of the cottages,” she answered. “They are so wretched and so damp, St. Quentin, and the people told me there could be no ‘Merry Christmas’ for them!”