Here she turned her head, and the Philosopher heard a curious little tremolo sound—he would have almost sworn it was a suppressed sob if he had not made up his mind that it was nothing but laughter. Stimulated by sudden interest he put his hand under her chin and moved her head gently round till the blue eyes looked straight into his own. A very slight smile lifted the corners of his lips.
“You have really caught a bad cold!” he said, softly. “Your eyes are quite wet!”
She lowered them promptly till he could only see glistening lashes on flushed cheeks.
“Why,” he asked, almost coaxingly, “should you think me such an absurd idiot as to be capable of imagining all those things about myself?”
She gave him a fleeting glance in which a smile danced like a sunbeam.
“Why? Because—because you are a Philosopher!” she answered. “Philosophy is all very well in theory—but in practice—oh, the mockery of it!”
He still kept his hand under her chin.
“‘Adversity’s sweet milk, Philosophy!’” he quoted, musingly. “That’s Shakespeare! Can you give me the lines which follow?”
She made no answer. He smiled again.
“Perhaps you haven’t a very good memory,” he said, patiently. “Now listen: