"Oh, she's an old friend!" said Duncombe. "Can't you guess?"
Hone shook his head.
"I can't imagine any old friend taking pity on me. Have you sounded her feelings on the subject? Or perhaps she hasn't got any where I am concerned."
"Oh, yes, she has her feelings about you!" said Duncombe, with confidence. "But I don't know what they are. She wasn't particularly communicative on that point."
"Or you, my son, were not particularly penetrating," suggested Hone.
"I certainly didn't penetrate far," Duncombe confessed. "It was a case of 'No admission to outsiders.' Still, I kept my eyes open on your behalf; and the conclusion I arrived at was that, though reticent where you were concerned, she was by no means indifferent."
Hone stooped and picked up his dumb-bells once more.
"Your conclusions are not always very convincing, Teddy," he remarked.
Duncombe got to his feet in leisurely preparation for departure.
"There was no mistake as to her reticence anyhow," he observed. "It was the more conspicuous, as all the rest of us were yelling ourselves hoarse in your honour. I was watching her, and she never moved her lips, never even smiled. But her eyes saw no one else but you."