"I don't know. We shouldn't have been such good friends as we are. I've never liked any boy as I like you, Con."
He ached to tell her how infinitely grateful he felt, but he could not find a word. They walked up and down together. Perhaps she understood. On a sudden he thought how cruel it was that the end would come when he went to Paris, or when she went to England. In that moment instinct taught the lad as remorselessly as experience teaches man. He knew their friendship was the merest incident to her, and the hurtfulness of the knowledge squeezed his throat.
"If we meet again one day, you'll give me a stiff little bow and pass by," he blurted.
"Con!" she murmured. "Why, I've become chummier here with you in a little while than I am with people I've known at home for years."
Still instinct was heavy in the boy.
He always spent the morning out of doors with his brushes; soon he found himself restless during the morning, impatient to return to the hotel. And he did not know he was in love with her. It did not occur to him as possible he could be in love with her. He had absolutely no suspicion.
It was still more extraordinary because he had so often thought he was in love, and gloried in being so; when we are very young, half the pleasure of being miserable about a girl consists of exciting comment, and pretending to be offended by it. Yet no idea of falling in love with Mrs. Adaile had crossed his mind. Perhaps it was because she was married. Perhaps it was because he was for the first time really in love.
Through most of the stages the boy went without an inkling of his complaint. One day his father said to him, "You've caught it very badly, Con," and laughed a warning. The boy was startled. He went away bewildered, and asked himself if it was true. When Mrs. Adaile sat with him on the terrace that night he was self-conscious and husky. For once her presence was scarcely welcome. It rather frightened him, though he would have died sooner than admit the shameful word to himself.
Afterwards he did not know how it came to pass, but she used to confide to him that her husband wasn't very kind to her. He was in London, and she sighed when she referred to going home. Her sighs were very plaintive, and her self-pity was sincere, but it was nothing to the pity that overwhelmed the boy.
"People don't guess how unhappy I am," she said to him one evening.