"The old house had such a charm!" said Chloe softly.
Roger made no reply. He rode stiffly beside her, looking straight before him. Chloe, observing him without appearing to do anything of the kind, asked herself whether the Apollo radiance of him were not already somewhat quenched and shorn. A slight thickening of feature—a slight coarsening of form—she thought she perceived them. Poor Roger!—had he been living too well and idling too flagrantly on these American dollars?
Suddenly she bent over and laid a gloved hand on his arm.
"Hadn't it?" she said, in a low voice.
He started. But he neither looked at her nor shook her off.
"What—the house?" was the ungracious reply. "I'm sure I don't know; I never thought about it—whether it was pretty or ugly, I mean. It suited us, and it amused mother to fiddle about with it."
Mrs. Fairmile withdrew her hand.
"Of course a great deal of it was ugly," she said composedly. "Dear Lady Barnes really didn't know. But then we led such a jolly life in it—we made it!"
She looked at him brightly, only to see in him an angry flash of expression. He turned and faced her.
"I'm glad you think it was jolly. My remembrances are not quite so pleasant."