He hesitated, and a blond man's flush crept up under his honest eyes. "I've been hoping all day that you didn't really mean what you said this morning—about my mother and sister, you know," he ventured.
"Yes," she affirmed relentlessly; "I did mean it."
"But some day you will change your mind—when you come to know them better."
"Shall I?" she said, with a ghost of a smile. "Perhaps you are right—when I come to know them better."
He was obliged to let it go at that; but when they reached the phaeton, and the horse-holding clerk had been relieved, he spoke of another matter.
"I'm a little worried about Kenneth," he told her. "He came down this morning looking positively wretched, but he wouldn't admit that he was sick. Have you seen much of him lately?"
"Not very much"—guardedly. "Did you say he had gone home?"
"I don't know where he has gone. He left here about half an hour before you came, and I haven't seen him since."
"And you are worried because he doesn't look well?"
"Not altogether on that account. I'm afraid he is in deep water of some kind. I never saw a person change as he has in the past week or so. You know him pretty well, and what a big heart he has?"