“In what way?” she said again.
His reply startled her, set her free from her feeling of numbness, of light detachment, from what she called to herself her “St. Moritz feeling.”
“I feel as if you were coming into possession of your true self at last,” he said very gravely. “But as if perhaps you scarcely knew it yet.”
A slow red crept in her cheeks, which would never know again the touch of the artificial red.
“Dear Seymour! My true self! I wonder what sort of self you think that is?”
“That’s easily told. It is the self I have been loving for so many years. And now—”
He got up, still alert in his movement, out of his chair.
“You are going?”
“Yes. I have to meet ‘Better not’ at the Marlborough to talk over His Majesty’s visit to Manchester.”
“Ah!” she said.