“But is he well? Does he look as he used?”
Suddenly I remembered that he had come south years ago because his lungs were not strong, and I turned cold at the thought that the trouble that had threatened him, might really have come back and fastened itself on him.
“Oh, he looks well enough,” the young man replied. “Only a little wild and queer. But O’Connor is queer, don’t you think so? A sign of genius, no doubt. He had a strange bringing up, hadn’t he? He’s a gentleman, of course; any one can see that; but he’s rather adventurous too; a strange mixture.”
I didn’t know what to say. I felt I should betray myself if I talked about him any longer, so I only ventured:
“He has a charming sister. She is one of my best friends.”
“Really?” said the young man. “Well, I hear O’Connor is putting up a studio somewhere in the Blue Ridge and that he means to try his hand at interpreting the mountains, but I think myself, he had better have stuck to portraits.”
I have heard many conversations during the last few weeks, Carin, but that is the only one I remember.
How good to be able to write you like this! I am so tired of keeping things to myself. We shall be starting for home some time in October, I believe. I shall hope to write you, but if I do not, think of me still, in spite of all silences, as
Your loving friend,