So engaged was Deane in admiring her that it was not until they were about to leave the table that he was conscious of something unusual about her; even then he did not make out the excitement just beneath her collected manner.
He wanted to show her what he had done to the vines and they went out in the yard. Presently they sat down on the garden-seat which he had moved a little while before. He had grown puzzled now by Amy's manner.
She was smoothing out the sash of her dress. She sang a little under her breath. Then she said, with apparent carelessness: "Mrs. Williams was at the tea today."
He knit his brows. "Mrs.—?" Then, understanding, his face tightened. "Was she?" was his only reply.
Amy sang a little more. "It's her husband that your friend is living with, isn't it?" she asked, and the suppressed excitement came nearer to the surface though her voice remained indifferent.
He said "Yes" shortly and volunteered nothing. His face had not relaxed.
"What a sad face she has," Amy murmured.
"Think so?" He reached over and picked up a twig and flipped a piece of it off his finger. "Oh, I don't know. I call it cold rather than sad."
"Oh, well, of course," cried Amy, "your sympathies are all on the other side!"
He did not reply. He would try to say as little as possible.