He turned then to Leo, who was reading, and evidently deeply engrossed in her book.
“Going?” she said, letting it fall, and looking up with a placid smile. “What lovely weather, is it not?”
North said it was delightful, as he bent impressively over the extended hand, and gazed with something of a lover’s rapture in the beautiful eyes that looked up into his; but there was no returning pressure of the hand; the look was merely pleasant and friendly, and, worn out with anxiety, sleeplessness, and watching, he could not help feeling a thirst for something more, if it were merely sympathy, instead of those calmly bland smiles and gently tolerant reception of his advances.
“Why, Horace, old man, I did not hurt you with my banter?” said Salis, as they walked up towards the church.
“Hurt me? No. I’m a little upset; that’s all. Salis, old fellow, I’m not quite happy.”
“No?” said the curate inquiringly, as he looked sidewise at his friend’s wrinkled face.
“I seem to make no progress with Leo.”
“Is that so, or is it your fancy?” said the curate guardedly.
“It is so. She seems to tolerate me. You notice it.”
“I notice that she is very quiet and thoughtful with you, but really that is a good sign.”