He had wondered whether that which he sometimes thought of as Flora’s Jesuitical plotting had come to prey upon her mind.
Evidently, if it did, he was not to be told so.
In the end he could think of no more subtle enquiry than:
“Why are you unhappy?”
“I don’t know,” she said with a trembling lip.
“I feel I’m of no use in the world. Wouldn’t you be unhappy, if you felt like that—that nobody really needed you in any way, and you had nothing to do?”
“Not in the least,” said Quentillian reflectively. “I am quite sure that nobody does need me, and it doesn’t distress me. As for having nothing to do, I imagine—if you will forgive me for saying so—that one can always find something if one looks far enough.”
“It’s different for a man.”
“Perhaps.”
Quentillian went away still undetermined whether Flora’s conduct of the affaire Carey was the cause or the result of her present deplorable condition.