So they talked of Tom and Kitty and the baby, and of Arbuthnot, and his friendship for them, and the oddities of it, and his way of making his efforts and kindness seem more than half a jest.
"No one can be kinder than Laurence," Bertha said. "No one could be a truer friend."
"I think so now," Agnes answered, quietly.
"He is not so light, after all," said Bertha. "Perhaps few of us are quite as light as we seem."
"I did him injustice at first," Agnes replied. "I understand him better now."
"If he should go away you would miss him a little," said Bertha. "He is a person one misses when he is absent."
"Does he"—Agnes began. "I have not heard him speak of going away."
"There is just a likelihood of it," Bertha returned. "Papa has been making an effort for him with the Secretary of State. He might be sent abroad."
"I have not heard him refer to the possibility," said Agnes. Her manner was still quiet, but she had made a slight involuntary movement, which closed the book she held.
"I do not think papa has spoken to him for some time," Bertha replied. "And when he first referred to his plan Laurence thought it out of the question, and did not appear to regard it seriously."