"Oh, I know my worth," said he, folding his hands and looking down, with his head on one side. Apparently he never tired of playing the clown.
"Tell me about Cecilia," said Rosamund.
"Ah, dear Cecilia! She's looking very well this autumn, very well indeed. And young! And slim! I admire dear Cecilia's slimness exceedingly. It's a monument to perseverance and self-denial."
Rosamund understood, and smiled with him. "Her letters have sounded very happy, so I've taken it for granted that things have gone well with her," she said.
"Well, you're responsible for that, aren't you? 'Pon my word, if Cecilia had money enough—or I had—to make her contented——" He sighed. "But Cecilia's up to something. She doesn't seem to—er—to care as much for my company as she did. Why, Rose, would you believe it, she even sent down word to me the other day that she had a headache!"
"Perhaps she had," Rosamund suggested.
"Oh, no. No. If she had, she would have let me see her. I'm good for headaches. No, it wasn't that. Besides, it was the very day after Flood told her he was coming here, and asked if she had any messages for you. No. Cecilia's up to something."
He wilted sideways in his chair, and tried to look pensive and pathetic. Rosamund watched him, amused as always, and not in the least understanding what he was trying to imply.
Suddenly he leaned toward her. "And you're up to something, too, Rosy!" he said, as if throwing the words at her. "What's your game in staying down here, anyway?"
She flushed angrily. "Marshall! You go too far, you know!"