“But never mind Baudelaire,” he continued, and his eyes, heavily lidded and shrouded by those big bushy eyebrows which seem to sprout almost with ardent violence as the body grows old, looked at her with melting kindness. “What have you been doing, my dear? The old dog wants to know. There is something on your mind, isn’t there?”
Lady Sellingworth had once said to Sir Seymour that he reminded her of a big dog, and he had laughed and said that he was a big dog belonging to her. Since that day, when he wrote to her, he had often signed himself “the old dog.” And often she had thought of him almost as one thinks of a devoted dog, absolutely trustworthy, ready for instant attack on your enemies, faithful with unquestioning faithfulness through anything.
As he spoke he gently took her hand, and she thought, “If Alick Craven were taking my hand!”
The touch of his skin was warm and very dry. It gave her a woman’s thoughts, not to be told of.
“What is it?” he asked.
Very gently she released her hand, and as she did so she looked on it almost sternly.
“Why?” she said. “Do I look unhappy—or what? Sit down, Seymour dear.”
She seemed to add the last word with a sort of pressure, with almost self-conscious intention.
He drew the tails of his braided morning coat forward with both hands and sat down, and she thought, “How differently a young man sits down!”
“Unhappy!” he said, in his quiet and strong, rather deep voice.