“You know,” she said, “I gave you the sign that I wanted to be friends. I had a feeling you knew I needed——”
“What?” he demanded, curious as to the development of her technic.
“Oh, just a little attention! I’ve tried in every way to tell you that I’m horribly lonely.”
“But you oughtn’t to be!” he said, vaguely conscious that they were repeating themselves.
“Oh, I know what you think! You think I ought to be very content and happy. But happiness isn’t so easy! We don’t get it just by wishing.”
“I suppose it’s the hardest thing in the world to find,” he assented.
It was now quite dark and the stars hung brilliant in the cloudless heavens. In her fur coat, with a smart toque to match, Constance had not before seemed so beguiling. His meeting with her in the lonely road with George Whitford and her evident wish not to be seen that day by Franklin Mills or the members of his riding party had rather shaken his first assumption that she could be classified as a harmless flirt. Tonight he didn’t care particularly. If Franklin Mills’s daughter-in-law wanted to flirt with him he was ready to meet her halfway.
“It’s strange, but you know I’m not a bit afraid of you. And the other evening when the rest of us couldn’t do a thing with Leila she chose you to take her home. You have a way of inspiring confidence. Shep picks you out, when he hardly knows you, for confidential talks. I’ve been trying to analyze your—fascinations.”
“Oh, come now! Your husband thought I might help him in a small perplexity—purely professional. Nothing to that! And your young sister-in-law was cross at the rest of you that day at Mrs. Torrence’s and out of pique chose me to take her home.”
“But I trust you!”