“Thyrsis,” she whispered, after a pause, “it’s Harry.”
“Harry?”
“Harry Stuart, you know.”
“Oh,” said he. He had all but forgotten the young drawing-teacher, whom he had left doing Socialist cartoons.
“Well?” he inquired.
“You see, Thyrsis, I always liked him very much. And he’s been coming up here—quite a good deal. I didn’t see why he shouldn’t come—Delia liked him too, and she was with us most of the time. Was it wrong of me to let him come?”
“I don’t know,” said he. “Tell me.”
“Perhaps it’s silly of me,” Corydon continued, hesitatingly—“but I’m always imagining things about people. And he seemed to me to have such possibilities. He has—how shall I say it—”
“I recall your saying he had soulful eyes,” put in Thyrsis.
“You’ll make fun of it all, of course,” said Corydon. “But it’s really very tragic. You see, he’s never met a woman like me before.”