Perhaps he was crying. Elinor never knew, although it seemed strange for a big splendid cowboy to shed tears.
“I’m so sorry for you,” she said kindly, and laid her hand on his arm, a great piece of condescension for her. “Touch-me-not” was a nick-name given her long ago by her friends.
“Oh, Elinor, Elinor,” he exclaimed, taking her hand in his, “if you could only understand what the sight of your face and the sound of your voice mean to me! If you could only know what I have lost by my folly, my wretched, miserable folly!”
“Aren’t you ever going back?” she asked, and she did not withdraw her hand.
“It’s too late now,” he said. “She hates me—they all hate me!”
“Are you sure?” she persisted.
“Perfectly certain.”
“Elinor, dear, I think you had better come back, now,” called Miss Campbell, who never let her girls out of her sight for long.
“Is Blackstone your real name?” Elinor asked as they paused before the door of the dancing room.
“My real name,” he replied, “is Algernon Blackstone de Willoughby Winston.”