“Oh,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean—I know you are often unhappy—”
“Nonsense!”
“You are! Anybody can see—and you really do not seem to be very old, either—when you smile—”
“I’m not very old,” he said, amused. “I’m not unhappy, either. If I ever was, the truth is that I’ve almost forgotten by this time what it was all about—”
“A woman,” she quoted, “between friends”—and checked herself, frightened that she had dared interpret Quair’s malice.
He changed countenance at that; the dull red of anger clouded his visage.
“Oh,” she faltered, “I was not saucy, only sorry.... I have been sorry for you so long—”
“Who intimated to you that a woman ever played any part in my career?”
“It’s generally supposed. I don’t know anything more than that. But I’ve been—sorry. Love is a very dreadful thing,” she said under her breath.
“Is it?” he asked, controlling a sudden desire to laugh.