“Oh of course lots of women are in love with you,”—with a contemptuous sniff; “but if I were a man I wouldn’t give tuppence for the woman who made me a present of her affections. You miss all the fun of the chase, and the victory. It must be deadly dull.”
“That’s what Lorraine has sometimes said; but what can I do? Shall I paint my face black?”
“Oh, I’ve seen you look black enough, but it’s rather becoming than otherwise. Anyhow, it isn’t insipid. But you’ve grown quite manly lately, I suppose. I hear about you occasionally positively working hard. Heavens!—what you owe to Lorraine!”
“I do,” fervently.
“Then why in the world don’t you look after her a bit? I turned up unexpectedly at half-past one today, and found her sobbing her eyes out.”
“You found Lorraine sobbing her eyes out...” incredulously.
“I did. She told me not to tell you, as it was only nerves—but of course it wasn’t. You know as well as I that Lorraine doesn’t suffer from weepy nerves. It’s worry again; and she is looking thoroughly ill.”
“Why again?...”
He was looking grave enough now, and there was anxiety in his voice.
“Oh, because there’s often something to worry her—either her mother, or her memories, or the future. I suppose you haven’t bothered to go and see her lately to cheer her up? Been too busy with your briefs!”