Ethan looked up, laughing at her over the banisters.
"What makes you look so solemn?" he asked.
"My sister's got a sore throat, and I can't find the stuff for a compress."
"No use telling me you're such a sympathetic sister as you make out. What's the real matter?"
Ethan had come down-stairs, intending to be more discreet than ever in the future. De Poincy was no doubt right—even here it was necessary to be en garde. With this idea dragged well into the foreground again, what demon of perversity made him lift a hand above the banisters and hold the girl's fingers fast to the polished rail? It was the first time he had touched her. He was rather startled at the commotion set up in his own nerves by the trifling action, but it was mainly, he assured himself, the reflex of the evident agitation of the girl. She had dropped her eyes, and he saw her upper lip tremble.
"What's the real matter?" he repeated, letting go her hand, not all of a sudden, but drawing his own across it lingeringly; "I thought you were always happy."
"Happy!" she said, making a gallant effort to recover her usual manner. "Well, it's nobody's fault if I am."
"Now that I come to look at you, I believe you are happy, all the same."
"Course I am; but it's only because I was born that way and can't get out o' the habit." She came on down-stairs.