"To Basile."
"To several of us, including Basile."
"Yes, because he and Basile played cards together."
"Not entirely for that," said Hugh, looking at her so squarely that she had to smooth back her curls. "But he'd like to help take care of him if you—and your mother, of course—are willing."
"Oh, how good—and brave! And he wants to ask me?"
"No, he's too bashful. I'm asking for him."
"Too—!" Ramsey pondered. They stepped more slowly. The other pair turned back; the play demanded Mrs. Gilmore. The sick-room door was so near that Ramsey knew her mother was inside it, by her shadow on its glass. Suddenly, just as Hugh was about to say she need not hurry in—whereupon she would have vanished like a light blown out—she faced him. "D'you ever suffer from bashfulness—diffidence?"
He answered on a droll, deep note: "All its horrors."
She looked him over. He barely smiled.
"You never show it," she said.