Clytie shook her head. "No."
"Could you tell me why not?"
"I'm afraid I can't, Fancy."
"I'm terribly worried about it. I'm sure there's some trouble. Oh, Miss Payson, I know he's awfully unhappy. And I can't bear that!"
Clytie walked to the window and looked out, standing there with her hands behind her back. There was a faint line come into her forehead. "I'd rather not talk about it," she said quietly.
"But I'm sure that if there is any misunderstanding, I might help you. Oh, Miss Payson, I don't want to be impertinent, but I can't bear it to think that he isn't happy. Can't you tell me about it?"
Clytie turned slowly, a look of pain deepening on her face. "I can only tell you this, that I was mistaken in him."
"Mistaken? How?"
"Not in quality, so much as in quantity, if you know what I mean. I know what he's capable of, what he has done, and what he can do. I don't feel any anger or resentment, for what I know, now, that he has done. I feel only pity and sorrow for him."
"But what has he done? That's just what I want to know. You mean that it was something definite?"