“Glad to have met you, hope to see you soon again.” These were the words Jacynth was saying, with a confusion curiously at variation with his habitual composure. He shook Castleton warmly by the hand, and moved away so rapidly that Castleton’s, “Why, my dear boy, of course you will; I shall stop here for ever so long,” was delivered to the empty air.
“By Jove!” Castleton said again, this time aloud, as he watched Jacynth’s rapid advance in the direction of the girl. “By Jove, he’s struck, like all the lot. Poor devil! I’ll stay here and give him a hint presently. Oh, poor devil, poor devil!” And Castleton’s jolly face expressed as much honest commiseration as its ruddy plumpness permitted.
In the meantime, Jacynth, walking rapidly, had met the girl. She smiled a welcome to him, and stopped as he stopped. Her face seemed troubled, he thought, in spite of its enchanting smile.
“How grave you look,” he began, for want of anything better to say.
“How grave you look,” she retorted, with a flash of the familiar enchanting audacity, as she looked up into his grave dark face.
“I have something to say to you,” said Jacynth. The remark was commonplace enough, but he felt his voice fail as he said it, and he knew by the sudden heat in his face that the blood was filling his pale cheeks.
The sound of his voice evidently impressed the girl, for she looked up at him with a sudden start, and her reply was queerly girlish and puzzled.
“What is it?” Then, as if she felt suddenly conscious of a blunder, or of unexpected knowledge, she tried to add other words:
“I mean, of course—I do not understand—I am looking for Ronny.”
“Ronny is quite safe,” said Jacynth gravely. “He is still at cricket with Harold. What I have to say does concern him though, a little.”