"What about?"
"You, my dear."
There was such a caress in his voice that I am sure he must have taken her hand or laid his own upon her shoulder as he said it.
"Me? I'm all right," said Bellwattle. "Why should you be depressed about me?"
"Because I imagine you're not happy. Of course I may be all wrong. I may be making a consummate fool of myself, but it's been growing in my mind every day that—that—"
"That what—?" said Bellwattle, and I was just preparing to sneeze or do something in the conventional order of things that they might hear me.
"That you're getting fond of Bellairs," replied Cruikshank.
There followed a space of silence. I do not know how long it could have been. It seemed unbearably drawn out to me, and then, Bellwattle laughed a low, soft, crooning sort of laugh—such as a mother gives to its baby.
"You dear, silly old fool," said she.
"Ah, but don't turn it off like that," he replied. "I haven't thought so for nothing. You go out a lot together alone and I know how romantic those cliffs are. He's a good fellow too—a sterling fellow. Don't imagine I think he has been making love to you. Of course I know he hasn't. I'm not suggesting so rotten a thing as a flirtation. Probably you neither of you have dreamed of it yet. But I have. You see I'm an outsider. And if there's anything in it, I wish you'd tell me. I wouldn't stand in your way. I don't think I could blame you. I must be a dull dog to live with. He sees more of life than I do—he's got more to talk about. All I jaw about is the country. I can't talk of anything else. I suppose I should understand it—but I'd like to know."