"Is the chair weak in its legs?" she laughed. "I'm light—I'll risk it," and, half defiantly, she seated herself by the table, leaning both elbows on it. She looked back at him. "Now, make a little drawing of me as you used to do. I'll show it to the girls in school to prove what a genius we have in the family; and I must go back, too, or I'll have more bad marks than ever."
Fairfax did not obey her. Instead, he looked at her as though he saw through her to eternity.
Bella sprang up impulsively, and came toward him. "Cousin Antony," she murmured, "I'm perfectly dreadful. I'm selfish and inconsiderate. It's only because I'm a little wild. I don't mean it. You've told me nothing." She lifted his cravat from the chair. "You wear a black cravat and your clothes are black. Is it for Aunt Arabella still?"
Fairfax seemed to himself to look down on her from a height. Her brilliance, her sparkle and youth were far away. His heart ached within him.
"One goes mighty far in five years, Bella.... One loses many things."
"I know—Gardiner and your mother. But who else?"
He saw her face sadden; the young girl extended her hand to him, her eyes darkened.
"Who else?" she breathed.
Fairfax put out his arms toward her, but did not enfold her. He let his hands rest on her shoulders and murmured, "Bella, little Bella," and choked the other words back.
"No," she said, "I'm not little Bella any more. Please answer me, Cousin Antony."