What was meant for a withering, burning look of scorn appeared on Lucy’s lips; but it was only pretty and provocative; it would not have scorched a child.
“No, dear, the man I should like to be would be something very different from him. There, I don’t care what you say to the contrary, you love Glynne, and I shall tell her so.”
“You love your brother too well ever to degrade him in the eyes of your friend, Lucy,” said Alleyne, drawing her to him, and stroking her hair. “Even if—if—”
“There, do say it out, Moray. If you did or do love her. I do wish you wouldn’t be so girlish and weak.”
“Am I girlish and weak?” he said thoughtfully.
“Yes, and dreamy and strange, when you, who are such a big fine-looking fellow, might be all that a woman could love.”
“All that a woman could love?” he said thoughtfully.
“Yes; instead of which you neglect yourself and go shabby and rough, and let your hair grow long. Oh, if I only could make you do what I liked. Come now, confess; you are very fond of Glynne?”
He looked at her dreamily for a while, but did not reply. It was as though his thoughts were busy upon something she had said before, and it was not until Lucy was about to speak that he checked her.
“Yes,” he said, “you are right; I have given up everything to my studies. I have neglected myself, my mother, you, Lucy. What would you say if I were to change?”