"I mean that some little annoyance or disappointment," he went on slowly, feeling his way, "often causes one more real discomfort than a big blow would."
She nodded listlessly. "I suppose so. I'll be back in a minute, John."
The strengthening spring sunshine fell through a window full on his face as he waited for her to come back, and there was something very thoughtful and a little sad in his strong blue eyes. In spite of his white hair he looked very young for his years, and his face, finely modelled and dignified, held a look of mental clarity and freshness, that, combined with its dominant expression of quiet energy, was very striking. But a heat wave had been hovering over London for the last three days and the humid warmth had tired everyone, and even he looked a little fagged.
As Grisel came back and drew together the hideous lace curtains that the doctor had wrenched to the ends of the poles, he said gently:
"This heat is exhausting you, my dear. You look fagged and worn."
"Why not say hideous at once?" she laughed, with a little edge in her voice and her slim hands moving restlessly as she sat down.
"For two reasons, the first is that you are not looking or never could look hideous; the second that I am too old and too old-fashioned for the brutal frankness that seems so popular nowadays." After a moment he added quietly, "I leave that kind of downrightness to younger men—such as Oliver Wick."
She started. "Oliver Wick's manners are perfectly abominable, and they seem to get worse. The beautiful Miss Perkins does not appear to have a very good influence on him."
John Barclay's blue eyes did not waver from her face.
"And yet," he said, "there is no doubt, at least to my mind, that the young man is very much in love."