“Well, no,” Varian returned. “But he doesn't need to be seen to be appreciated.”
A strange suspicion crept over him.
“Do you often—Do you do much—How is it that you—” He could not say it properly. Was it possible that Mrs. Dud—— It was unworthy of her!
She caught his meaning, and her cool gray eyes met his with their uncompromising directness. He seemed convicted of unnecessary shuffling.
“Oh, Lizzie asked me not to do anything,” she said quietly. “She wanted me to enjoy myself with her friends. But I'm not used to so much society, and I don't want to be any hinderance. I'm not so young as I used to be. I'd have liked the gayety well enough when I was a girl, but I guess it tires me a little now. There seems to be so much going on all the time. Lizzie says she's resting, but it wouldn't rest me. Do you find it so?”
He recalled his yesterday's programme: driving a pulling team all the morning; carrying Mrs. Dud's heavy bag over the links all the afternoon—she preferred her friends to caddies; prompting for the dramatics rehearsal, with a poor light, all the evening, while the actors gossiped and squabbled and flirted contentedly.
“It is not always restful,” he admitted.
“It makes my head ache,” she remarked placidly. “I like to see the girls enjoy themselves. I'm glad they're happy—some of those visiting Lizzie are so pretty!—but I'm glad I haven't got to run about so much. I'm very fond of driving myself, if I have a good quiet horse that won't shy and doesn't go fast, and Lizzie has one for me—a white one that's gentle—and I drive about in the phaëton a great deal. The doctor that came that night—were you here?—when Mrs. Page fainted and they couldn't bring her to (it seems she was in the habit of taking some medicine to make her sleep, and it weakened her heart) asked me if I wouldn't like to take out some patients of his, and so I called for a very nice lady—a Mrs. Williams; you probably don't know her?—and after that a young girl with spinal trouble, and—and several others. They seemed to enjoy it, and I'm sure I did. Once I took a young girl that's staying here—she had a bad headache. She was a sweet girl, and I liked her. She said the drive helped her a great deal. It's astonishing”—her eyes met his wonderingly—“how much trouble you can have, with all the money you want! I—I was sorry for her,” she added, half to herself.
Before he thought he leaned forward, took her hand with the silver tablespoon in it, and kissed it gently. He admired her as he would admire some charming soft pastel hung in a cool white room.
“How sweet and good you are!” he said warmly; and then, to cover her deep embarrassment and his own sudden emotion, he continued quickly, “Are you very busy in the morning, always?”