“Yes?”
“Do you think Beattie would marry him if he asked her?”
“I don’t know.”
She sat down in the firelight near the hearth, and bent a little over her work on the tiny garment, which looked as if it were intended for the use of a fairy. Dion looked at her head with its pale hair. As he leaned forward he could see all the top of her head. The firelight made some of her hair look quite golden, gave a sort of soft sparkle to the curve of it about her broad, pure forehead.
“Guy’s getting desperate,” he said. “But he’s afraid to put his fortune to the test. He thinks even uncertainty is better than knowledge of the worst.”
“Of one thing I’m certain, Dion. Beattie doesn’t love Guy Daventry.”
“Oh well, then, it’s all up.”
Rosamund looked up from the little garment.
“I didn’t say that.”
“But if Beattie—but Beattie’s the soul of sincerity.”