“Why have you been so kind to him?” she asked timidly. “From what he said, I do not think that he was very useful to you, and, indeed, you and he are so different.”
Laverick was silent for a moment.
“To be honest,” he said, “I think that I should not have taken so much trouble for his sake alone. You see,” he continued, smiling, “you are rather a delightful young person, and you were very anxious, weren’t you?”
Her hand came across the table—an impulsive little gesture, which he nevertheless found perfectly natural and delightful. He took it into his, and would have raised the fingers to his lips but for the waiters who were hovering around.
“You are so kind,” she said, “and I am so fortunate. I think that I wanted a friend.”
“You poor child,” he answered, “I should think you did. You are not drinking your wine.”
She shook her head.
“Do you mind?” she asked. “A very little gets into my head because I take it so seldom, and the manager is cross if one makes the least bit of a mistake. Besides, I do not think that I like to drink wine. If one does not take it at all, there is an excuse for never having anything when the girls ask you.”
He nodded sympathetically.
“I believe you are quite right,” he said; “in a general way, at any rate. Well, I will drink by myself to your brother’s safe arrival in New York. Are you ready?”