“I know it. You must take my word for what I have told you.”
She looked up at him: “I do.” Then: “It's a pity; Mr. Quarrier does not consider such things humourous. He—he is very sensitive.... Oh, I wish that fool Englishman had been in Ballyhoo!”
“But he didn't do it!”
“No, but he put you up to it—or Grace Ferrall did. I wish Grace would let Mr. Quarrier alone; she has always been perfectly possessed to plague him; she seems unable to take him seriously and he simply hates it. I don't think he'd tolerate her if she were not his cousin.
“I'm awfully sorry,” was all Siward said; and for a while he gloomily busied himself with whatever was brought to him.
“Don't look that way,” came a low voice beside him.
“Do I show everything as plainly as that?” he asked, curiously.
“I seem to read you—sometimes.”
“It's very nice of you,” he said.
“Nice?”