"Oh, nothing in particular. Yesterday I played golf with young Atkins. He asked after you."
"Did he?" Her eyes brightened. "I wish I could see him again."
"He tells me he is going to America shortly. He has been in his father's office, you know, but they don't get on, and so I think it's very wise of him to clear out."
"And you are going to Italy?" Marie said constrainedly. "Chris suggested that we should go, too, but—but I don't think I care to."
"It's the wrong time of year to see Italy to advantage."
"Yes, I know."
She looked at him wistfully. So strong, such a man! Longing to know the perfect happiness of his love crept into her heart.
There would be no half measures with him, she knew; no pretences. He would give all or nothing.
In spite of what he had said, Feathers had struggled into evening clothes. They did not fit him particularly well, but they seemed to magnify the squareness and strength of his build. Though he was not so tall as Chris, he always looked taller, and, despite his ugly features, there was something very noble in the rough outline of his head and shaggy hair.
"Where are they playing to-day?" he asked, breaking a silence that was beginning to get unbearable, and Marie said: