She smiled back at him.
"Do you pronounce me well?" she asked.
"To all appearances—yes. After two weeks, you can return to New York any time you wish."
"After two weeks? Why not in a few days?"
"We want your good condition to be lasting. Mrs. Lambert tells me you looked better one week ago than you do now. Did you feel better then?"
It seemed unkind for George to ask her such a question. But he was determined to see for himself how deep a trouble was hers. His eyes regarded her intently. He noticed the sudden droop of the eye-lids to hide the shadow beneath them. Her lips quivered in spite of herself, and her hands toyed nervously with the lace of her dress.
A sudden rush of pity destroyed his own self-control. Leaning toward her, he laid one strong hand on her two small fair ones.
"Edith, look at me! Tell me—your old friend, little girl—what troubles you?"
Compelled, she raised her eyes to his. The violet in them seemed deeper and darker with a great overpowering sadness. It expressed such melancholy depression, that George's whole being thrilled with the pain of it.
"Thank you for your sympathy George. If you are my friend, you will ask me nothing."