“Well—you know—we’re relations, or connections, at least. Hester is your cousin, and she’s your most intimate friend. Isn’t she?”
“Yes. Is it about her? There she is, just over there—talking to that ugly, thin man with the nice face. Do you see her?”
Crowdie looked in the direction indicated, though he did not in the least wish to talk about his wife to Katharine.
“Oh, yes; I see her,” he answered. “She’s talking to Paul Griggs, the writer. You know him, don’t you? I wonder how he comes here!”
“Is that Paul Griggs?” asked Katharine, with a show of interest. “I’ve always wished to see him.”
“Yes. But it has nothing to do with Hester—”
“What has nothing to do with Hester?” asked Katharine, with despairing absence of mind, as she watched the author’s face.
“The question I was going to ask you—if you would let me.”
Katharine turned towards him. He could produce extraordinarily soft effects with his beautiful voice when he chose, and he had determined to attract her attention just then, seeing that she was by no means inclined to give it.
“Oh, yes—the question,” she said. “Is it anything very painful? You spoke—how shall I say?—in such a pathetic tone of voice.”