And Denise turned away as she spoke, with that air of indifference which so often covers a keen desire for information, if it is a woman who seeks it.
“Yes,” answered Lory, turning, as she turned, to look at her. He looked at her whenever opportunity offered. The cheek half turned from him was a little sunburnt, the colour of a peach that has ripened in the open under a Southern sun, for Denise loved the air. Perhaps he had only spoken the truth when he said that her absence made him tired. There are many in the world who have to fight against that weariness all their lives. At last, as if with an effort, Denise turned, and met his glance for a moment.
“Bad news,” she said; “I can see that.”
“Yes. It is bad enough.”
“Of your estates?” inquired Denise.
“No. I never cared for the estate; I do not care for it now.”
“Then it is of ... some one?”
Lory did not answer at once.
“I shall have to go back to Corsica,” he said at length, “as soon as I can move—in a few days.”
Denise glanced at him with angry eyes.