Mrs. Copeland left him, making it necessary for him to join Nan, who had moved a little away from the circle they had formed before the fireplace.
“It’s too bad you don’t tell your friends about your troubles,” she remarked after a moment’s silence. “So many things have happened that you ought to be very cheerful.”
“I haven’t been feeling very well,” he answered doggedly.
“You do look utterly fagged out,” she retorted. “But if I were you I wouldn’t cut all my friends.”
“I haven’t cut anybody,” he replied. “I guess I know when to drop out. I want everybody to be happy,” he said plaintively, feeling his martyr’s crown pinching his brow.
“That’s very sweet of you, Jerry. The policeman at the market asked Saturday what had become of you. Your absence seems to have occasioned remark, though I hadn’t noticed it myself.”
“I didn’t suppose you would,” he said, with an effort at bitterness that was so tame that she laughed.
“Of course, if you’ve lost interest, it’s all right. I never meant to bore you. And I’m not complaining. But you haven’t been kind to Mr. Eaton. I suppose it never occurred to you that he’s taken a good deal of pains to be nice to you. And just now, just now,”—she added, lowering her voice,—“we should all be as good to him as we can.”
He frowned at this. If she and Eaton were in love with each other, he saw no good reason why he should be sorry for either of them.
“If I had a chance I could tell you some things,” Nan continued, “but I suppose it’s just as well to let you read about them in the papers.”