And Hester watched them, too, accustomed to notice whatever struck her husband’s attention. A very different nature was hers from any of the three—one reserved for an unusual destiny, and with something of fate’s shadowy painting already in all her outward self—passionate, first, and having, also, many qualities of mercy and cruelty at passion’s command, but not having anything of the keen insight into the world spiritual, and material, which in varied measure belonged to each of the others.
“And what defect do you see in my soul?” asked Katharine, her exquisite lips just parting in a smile.
“Forgive me!” exclaimed Griggs, as though roused from a reverie. “I didn’t realize that I was staring at you.” He was an oddly natural man at certain times. Katharine almost laughed.
“I didn’t realize it either,” she answered. “I was too much interested in what I thought you were going to say.”
“He’s a very clever fellow, Miss Lauderdale,” said Crowdie, going on with his painting. “But you’ll turn his head completely. To be so much interested—not in what he has said, or is saying, or even is going to say, but just in what you think he possibly may say—it’s amazing! Griggs, you’re not half enough nattered! But then, you’re so spoilt!”
“Yes—in my old age, people are spoiling me.” Griggs smiled rather sourly. “I can’t read souls, Miss Lauderdale,” he continued. “But if I could, I should rather read yours than most books. It has something to say.”
“It’s impossible to be more vague, I’m sure,” observed Crowdie.
“It’s impossible to be more flattering,” said Katharine, quietly. “Thank you, Mr. Griggs.”
She was beginning to be tired of Crowdie’s observations upon what Griggs said—possibly because she was beginning to like Griggs himself more than she had expected.