Carlisle gazed up at him, her chin upon her ungloved hand. Was there pose in these depictions of Mr. Hugo Canning as a morose recluse? She thought not: his light bitterness rang true enough, the note of a man really half-desperate with ennui. And she read his remarks as a subtle sign of his confidence, an acknowledgment of acquaintance between them, a bond....
"But you can't do it, I suppose?--if your health demands that you put up with us a little while longer?"
"I seem rude?--of course. But my meaning is quite the contrary.... May you, Miss Heth, never know the sorrows of the transplanted and the idle--"
He broke off, staring with apparent absentness.
Much interested, Carlisle said, toying with her teaspoon:
"I didn't think you rude at all. It seems to me perfectly natural that you should be both bored and blue--especially if you don't feel quite well.... But surely a little mild pleasuring during rest hours isn't forbidden as injurious to throats?"
"A little?"
"Of course you think we haven't much to offer, but really there is some amusement to be had here. Really! Perhaps a little gambolling now and then--"
"My curse," said Canning, turning his dark eyes down upon her, "is that I can't learn when to stop. Once I begin, I am never satisfied till I've gambolled all over the place."
Carlisle's eyes fell before his gaze. "This," said she, drawing on a glove, "is a small place."