“Has Rose been saying anything to you?”
“Nothing that I have not heard you say yourself. You accused her once in my hearing of being too fond of admiration, of—of flirting, in short—”
“My dear Graeme! I don’t think I ever made any such assertion—at least in a way that you or Rose need to resent—or complain of.”
“Rose does not complain of it, she laughs at it. Harry, dear, what is it? Don’t you remember one night when something was said about Mrs Gridley—no, don’t be impatient. You were annoyed with Rose, then, and it was not about anything that was said at the time, at least I thought not. I don’t wish to seem prying or inquisitive, but what concerns Rose is a great matter to me. She is more to me than any one.”
“Graeme,” said Harry, gravely, “you don’t suppose that I love Rose less than you do. I think I know what you mean, however. I annoyed her once by something I said about Charlie, but it was only for the moment. I am sure she does not care about that now.”
“About Charlie!” repeated Graeme.
“Yes; you did not know it, I suppose, but it was a serious matter to Charlie when you and Rose went away that time. He was like a man lost. And I do believe she cared for him, too—and I told him so—only she was such a child.”
“You told him so!” repeated Graeme, in astonishment.
“I could not help it, Graeme. The poor fellow was in such a way, so—so miserable; and when he went West last winter, it was more to see Rose than for anything else. But he came back quite downhearted. She was so much run after, he said, and she was very distant with him. Not that he said very much about it. But when I went out there afterwards, I took her to task sharply about it.”
“Harry! How could you?”