It seemed as if he were trying to pump her a little; but the manner in which he did it had so little of indiscretion about it and so much of interest that she did not feel hurt.
“Yes,” she answered. “Did Vincent tell you so?”
“Yes, Vincent often spoke to me about you.”
His words gave her the impression that he knew a great deal about her life. After her flight from Betsy’s house she had written Vincent, and no doubt St. Clare knew of it. [[271]]
“And you have travelled a good deal, have you not?” he continued.
“Yes, with uncle and aunt. You also think of travelling, do you not?”
“Yes, as far as Russia next winter.”
Both were silent for a moment. It seemed to Eline as if they had much to say to each other, and did not know where to start. To her it seemed as if she had long known him, and now it appeared too that he knew her. They were no longer strangers to each other.
“Do you care very much for Vincent?” she asked.
“I like him very much. I feel much sympathy and pity for him. If his health had been more robust he would have made his mark. In him there is much energy and elasticity, and his views are very broad, but his physical weakness prevents him from giving his mind to any one thing and bringing it to completion. Most people misunderstand Vincent. They think him indolent, capricious, selfish; and they will not acknowledge that the explanation of it all is to be found in the fact that he is weak and ill. I defy the greatest and the best of us to be active and determined to turn his gifts and talents to good use if he is half dying with weakness.”