"Oh, he's always very much in love," she retorted, the edge in her voice sharpening. "Why, it is only nine months ago that he was making a perfect fool of himself about—about a friend of mine."
Barclay nodded. "Yes, I gathered from something his mother said that the young lady with the floral name has not the advantage of being his first love. I suppose the girl—the other girl," he took a cigarette case from his pocket and lit a cigarette, "didn't care about him."
Grisel rose. "Oh, give me a cigarette. Care about him? I should think she didn't. He bored the life out of the poor girl with his scenes—and—and," she struck a match, "his absurd white face."
"Dear me, I should have called him rather brown," commented Sir John mildly. "Quite a brown young man, I should have said."
"Oh, yes, but he used to turn white, and all those hideous lines in his face used to look suddenly so sharp and—and so deep."
"Very emotional he must be. You knew the young lady well, then?"
Grisel shot a quick glance at him. "Yes—yes, I did. She was a friend of mine. She has—she is in South America now."
"I see. But we are digressing. What I started to say was that as you are looking so tired, and as it is so frightfully hot, and as my foot is going to make me pretty useless for a few days, suppose we go for a little motor tour?"
Her face brightened, "Oh yes, let's. Couldn't we go to the sea, John, I—I think the sea up north somewhere would brace me—I mean all of us up and make us feel better."
"Good! What do you think of Yorkshire, Whitby or Robinhood Bay? Could you start to-morrow?"