“Very sad story; can't they do anything for him?” and she made researches in the rose's heart.
“He's quarrelled with them, I believe,” said Shelton; “I have n't liked to press him, about that.”
“No, of course not,” assented Mrs. Dennant absently—she had found another green-fly “I always think it's painful when a young man seems so friendless.”
Shelton was silent; he was thinking deeply. He had never before felt so distrustful of the youthful foreigner.
“I think,” he said at last, “the best thing would be for you to see him for yourself.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Dennant. “I should be so glad if you would tell him to come up. I must say I do think that was a most touchin' story about Paris. I wonder whether this light's strong enough now for me to photograph this rose.”
Shelton withdrew and went down-stairs. Ferrand was still at breakfast. Antonia stood at the sideboard carving beef for him, and in the window sat Thea with her Persian kitten.
Both girls were following the traveller's movements with inscrutable blue eyes. A shiver ran down Shelton's spine. To speak truth, he cursed the young man's coming, as though it affected his relations with Antonia.