Churchill’s face changed suddenly. He looked rather old, and grey, and wintry, even a little frail. I understood what she was proving to me, and I rather disliked her for it. It seemed wantonly cruel to remind a man of what he was trying to forget.
“Ah, yes,” he said, with the gentle sadness of quite an old man, “I dare say there is more in that than you think. Even you will have to learn.”
“But not for a long time,” she interrupted audaciously.
“I hope not,” he answered, “I hope not.” She nodded and glided away.
We resumed the road in silence. Mr. Churchill smiled at his own thoughts once or twice.
“A most amusing ...” he said at last. “She does me a great deal of good, a great deal.”
I think he meant that she distracted his thoughts.
“Does she always talk like that?” I asked. He had hardly spoken to me, and I felt as if I were interrupting a reverie—but I wanted to know.
“I should say she did,” he answered; “I should say so. But Miss Churchill says that she has a real genius for organization. She used to see a good deal of them, before they went to Paris, you know.”
“What are they doing there?” It was as if I were extracting secrets from a sleep-walker.