After a pause, she asked diffidently: "Your own?"
"Perhaps.... Yes, my own, certainly.... And perhaps another's, not so old but possibly quite as grievous."
"Somebody you care for a great deal?"
Thus tardily made to realise into what perils his fancy was leading him, he checked and weighed her question with his answer, gravely judgmatical.
"Perhaps I'd better not say that," he announced, a grin tempering his temerity; "but I'd go far for a friend, somebody who had been kind to me, and—ah—tolerant—if she were in trouble and could use my services."
He fancied her glance was quick and sharp and searching; but her voice when she spoke was even and lightly attuned to his whimsical mood.
"Then you're not even sure she—your friend—is in trouble?"
"I've an intuition: she wouldn't be where she is if she wasn't."
Her laughter at this absurdity was delightful; whether with him or at him, it was infectious; he echoed it without misgivings.
"But—seriously—you're not sure, are you, Mr. Sybarite?"