"Why, of course I could," said Cary, and after that she came oftener. They would carry Stewart down to his mother's cheerful little sitting room, and there one or more of the family would gather and Cary would talk or read aloud. At such times Stewart would lean back in his chair among his pillows and remain silent, content to look at her and to listen to her voice. One day they were left alone together. He remained quiet, his eyes fixed on her. Presently she finished the chapter and turned the page.
"I think that was a pretty strong scene, don't you?" she asked, pausing for a moment before she went on, and peering at him gravely over the top of the book.
"Yes—it was," he answered absently.
"You weren't listening to a word of it," she exclaimed reproachfully.
He laughed.
"To tell you the truth—no. Put the wretched old thing down and talk to me."
She laid the book down as he had bidden, but she played nervously with the leaves.
"What shall I talk about?"
"Oh, anything—yourself."
"Upon my word, but you're polite. There isn't an earthly thing to tell about myself," she added, "And I don't know any topic that would interest you. There's that House of Commons speech, of course, but——"