Horace looked at him. “Do you mean in her looks or her manners?”
“Both.”
Horace hesitated in his turn. “Now you speak of it—” he began.
“Well,” said Henry, “speak out just what you think.”
“I have not been sure that there was anything definite,” Horace said, slowly. “I have not been sure that it was not all imagination on my part.”
“That's just the way I've been feeling,” Henry said, eagerly. “What is it that you've been noticing?”
“I told you I am not sure that it is not all imagination, but—”
“What?”
“Well, sometimes your wife has given me the impression that she was brooding over something that she was keeping entirely to herself. She has had a look as if she had her eyes turned inward and was worrying over what she saw. I don't know that you understand what I mean by that?”
Henry nodded. “That's just the way Sylvia's been looking to me.”