Cecily looked at him. He was older than Dick, she thought, probably approaching forty, though his face might be older than his age warranted. It had lines set on a skin that was hardly ready for them. It might have been a discouraged face, or a sad face, but the eyes kept it from being that. They were too interested, too alert for sadness or despondency. She liked the smile in his gray eyes. She liked his strong, alert figure. It lacked Dick’s lean athleticism and he was heavy about the shoulders as a man near forty might be, but he had the appearance of power. “Have you been amusing Fliss Horton with contributions to thought?”
“No. I have merely stepped on her feet. But I like to look at her. She’s so immensely vigorous and vigor in frail things is always inspiring, isn’t it?”
“I wonder if that’s what I feel about her.”
“Maybe. Watch her now. Watch her amusing your husband. She’s working at it hard.”
“He is amused,” said Cecily. “I can tell by the way his eyes slant down at her. He likes her.”
“That must be,” said Matthew, reflectively, “just the way she was working on me the other night. I had the most insistent desire to be amused again, so I got up this party.”
“You’re hardly gracious.”
He was suddenly different. “I didn’t mean to be rude, Mrs. Harrison. I was only thinking aloud. You mustn’t think I don’t feel immensely obliged to Miss Horton—awfully grateful to her for being willing to put up with me for an evening.”
“Of course,” said Cecily, “I didn’t think you were rude.”
“Do you know that I used to be quite a friend of your husband?”