Barres nodded:
“Is yours?”
“Most of it. How many trunks is Thessa taking?”
“How do I know?” said Barres, with a trace of irritation. “She’s at liberty to take as many as she likes.”
Westmore didn’t notice the irritation; his mind was entirely occupied by Thessalie—an intellectual condition 241 which had recently become rather painfully apparent to Barres, and, doubtless, equally if not painfully apparent to Thessalie herself.
Probably Dulcie noticed it, too, but gave no sign, except when the serious grey eyes stole toward Barres at times, as though vaguely apprehensive that he might not be entirely in sympathy with Westmore’s enchanted state of mind.
As for Thessalie, though Westmore’s naïve and increasing devotion could scarcely escape her notice, it was utterly impossible to tell how it affected her—whether, indeed, it made any impression at all.
For there seemed to be no difference in her attitude toward these two men; it was plain enough that she liked them both—that she believed in them implicitly, was happy with them, tranquil now in her new security, and deeply penetrated with gratitude for their kindness to her in her hour of need.
“Come on in,” coaxed Westmore, linking his arm in Barres’, and counting on the latter to give him countenance.