"You have been crying," he remarked.
There was no use denying it. And what was there in the good gray-brown eye, gazing through the monocle, which so moved her by its suggestion of kindness and—and some new feeling?
"Yes, I have," she admitted. "I don't often—but—well, yes, I have."
"What was it?"
It was the most extraordinary thump her heart gave at this moment. She had never felt such an absolute thump. It was perhaps because she was tired. His voice had lowered itself. No man had ever spoken to her before like that. It made one feel as if he was not an exalted person at all; only a kind, kind one. She must not presume upon his kindness and make much of her prosaic troubles. She tried to smile in a proper casual way.
"Oh, it was a small thing, really," was her effort at treating the matter lightly; "but it seems more important to me than it would to any one with—with a family. The people I live with—who have been so kind to me—are going away."
"The Cupps?" he asked.
She turned quite round to look at him.
"How," she faltered, "did you know about them?"
"Maria told me," he answered, "I asked her."