He did come up, and when she asked him, sat down opposite her. He was silent for a few moments, and Nina studied him with frank and kindly curiosity. For the first time she saw what a remarkably handsome boy he was, a little haggard, a little too thin, perhaps, but tall and sinewy, and notably distinguished.
Yes, that was the word; he was distinguished looking, with his thin, rather arrogant face, his slender, well-kept hands, his neat dark suit. He was not surly to-day, and not shy or awkward; he looked at her candidly as he spoke.
“I hope you won’t mind,” he said. “But I knew you could tell me. If you’d give me your advice. I’ve got an invitation—but perhaps I’d better show it to you.”
He took a letter out of his pocket and handed it to her. It read:
My dear Boy:
Why not run down for this week-end? Don’t bother to let me know—just come if you can. I often think of you, and it seems to me perfectly terrible that you should be living like that. And quite unnecessary. I want you to meet some of your own sort.
Yours—most sincerely,
Lucille Winter.
Lucille Winter! And writing in this vein to this boy! Nina held the letter in her hand for a long time, unable to say anything to cloak her thought.
“You see,” said Gilbert, “I couldn’t go until to-day, on account of my job. And I’d have to come back to-morrow night. D’you think that would be all right?”
“No!” thought Nina. “Nothing could be less right. It’s—a horrible thing. You’re only a child. And Lucille—You don’t know Lucille, but I do.”