Dion had not seen Mr. Thrush on the evening of his first day at Welsley. He had been kept so busy by Rosamund, had done and seen so much, that he had quite forgotten the ex-chemist. In the evening, however, before dinner, he suddenly remembered him.
“What’s become of Mr. Thrush?” he asked. “And, by the way, what is he doing down here? You never told me, Rose, and even Robin’s not said a word.”
“I asked him not to,” said Rosamund, with her half-shrewd, half-soft look. “The fact is——” She broke off, then continued, with her confidential air, “Dion, when you see Mr. Thrush I want you to tell me something truthfully. Will you?”
“I’ll try to. What is it?”
“I want you to look at his nose—”
“Rosamund!”
“No, really,” she pursued, with great earnestness. “And I want you to tell me whether you think, honestly think, it—better.”
“But why?”
“It’s very important for Mr. Thrush that it should look better. He’s down here to be seen.”
Her voice had become almost mysterious.