These things and others it was which swayed him, as was plain to Betty in the time which followed, to many changes of mood.
“Are you sorry for a man who is ill and depressed,” he asked one day, “or do you despise him?”
“I am sorry.”
“Then be sorry for me.”
He had come out of the house to her as she sat on the lawn, under a broad, level-branched tree, and had thrown himself upon a rug with his hands clasped behind his head.
“Are you ill?”
“When I was on the Riviera I had a fall.” He lied simply. “I strained some muscle or other, and it has left me rather lame. Sometimes I have a good deal of pain.”
“I am very sorry,” said Betty. “Very.”
A woman who can be made sorry it is rarely impossible to manage. To dwell with pathetic patience on your grievances, if she is weak and unintelligent, to deplore, with honest regret, your faults and blunders, if she is strong, are not bad ideas.
He looked at her reflectively.