"Why, you used to take a great interest in all his adventures—you know you did."
This must be faced. "Of course I did. Well—?"
"Well," said Lancelot, very acutely, "now they seem rather ordinary—rather chronic." Chronic was a word of Crewdson's, used as an augmentive. Lucy laughed, but faintly.
"Yes, I expect they are chronic. But I think Mr. Urquhart is very nice."
"He's ripping," said Lancelot, in a stare.
James in the drawing-room that evening was studiously himself, and Lucy fought with her restlessness, and prevailed against it. He was shy, and spun webs of talk to conceal his preoccupations. Lucy watched him guardedly, but with intense interest. It was when she went upstairs that the amazing thing happened.
She stood by him, her hand once more upon his shoulder. He had his book in his hand.
"I'm going," she said. "You have been very sweet to me. I don't deserve it, you know."
He looked up at her, quizzing her through the detested glass. "You darling," he said calmly, and she thrilled. Where had she heard that phrase? At the Walküre!
"You darling," he said; "who could help it?"