He pulled himself up as he neared her and held out a friendly hand.
"That's right, Miss Quincey. I'm delighted to see you out. You really are getting strong again, aren't you?"
"Yes, thank you—very well, very strong."
Was it her fancy, or did his manner imply that he wanted to sink that humiliating episode of the tea-party and begin again where they had left off? It might be so; his courtesy was so infinitely subtle. He had actually turned and was walking her way now.
"And how is Sordello?" he asked, the tone of his inquiry suggesting that there was something seriously the matter with Sordello.
"Getting on. Only fifty-six pages more."
"You are advancing, Miss Quincey—gaining on him by leaps and bounds.
You're not overdoing it, I hope?"
"Oh no, I read a little in the evenings—I have to keep up to the standard of the staff. Indeed," she added, turning with a sudden suicidal panic, "I ought to be at home and working now."
"What? On a half-holiday? It is a half-holiday?"
"For some people—not for me."