“Greatly changed—not ill?” she said.
He wondered if the tone in which she spoke suggested anxiety—or was it merely womanly curiosity?
“Oh, no; he seems all right; but it is clear that his father’s death and the circumstances attending it affected him deeply.”
“It gave him a title at any rate.”
The suspicion of scorn was once more about her voice. Its tone no longer suggested anxiety for the health of Lord Fotheringay.
“You are too hard on him, Beatrice,” said Edmund. She had come to be Beatrice to him for more than a week—a week in which he had been twice in her drawing-room, and in which she had been twice in his opera box.
“Too hard on him?” said she. “How is it possible for you to judge what is hard or the opposite on such a point?”
“I have always liked Harold,” said he; “that is why I must stand up for him.”
“Ah, that is your own kindness of heart,” said she. “I remember how you used to stand up for him at Castle Innisfail. I remember that when you told me how wretchedly poor he was, you were very bitter against the destiny that made so good a fellow poor, while so many others, not nearly so good, were wealthy.”
“I believe I did say something like that. At any rate I felt that. Oh, yes, I always felt that I must stand up for him; so even now I insist on your not being too hard on him.”