She seemed to wonder. “At home?”
“I mean in his relations with his wife. He has a mystifying little way of alluding to her.”
“Not to me,” said Marian Fancourt with her clear eyes. “That wouldn’t be right, would it?” she asked gravely.
“Not particularly; so I’m glad he doesn’t mention her to you. To praise her might bore you, and he has no business to do anything else. Yet he knows you better than me.”
“Ah but he respects you!” the girl cried as with envy.
Her visitor stared a moment, then broke into a laugh. “Doesn’t he respect you?”
“Of course, but not in the same way. He respects what you’ve done—he told me so, the other day.”
Paul drank it in, but retained his faculties. “When you went to look at types?”
“Yes—we found so many: he has such an observation of them! He talked a great deal about your book. He says it’s really important.”
“Important! Ah the grand creature!”—and the author of the work in question groaned for joy.