“I guess they are.”
“It was said they were going to Venice for the summer.”
“That's what the doctor advised for the old lady. But they don't start for a week or two yet.”
“Oh!”
“Are you going to Miss Milray's, Sunday night? Last of the season, I believe.”
Belsky seemed to recall himself from a distance.
“No—no,” he said, and he moved away, forgetful of the ceremonious salutation which he commonly used at meeting and parting. Hinkle looked after him with the impression people have of a difference in the appearance and behavior of some one whose appearance and behavior do not particularly concern them.
The day that followed, Belsky haunted the hotel where Gregory was to arrive with his pupil, and where the pupil's family were waiting for them. That night, long after their belated train was due, they came; the pupil was with his father and mother, and Gregory was alone, when Belsky asked for him, the fourth or fifth time.
“You are not well,” he said, as they shook hands. “You are fevered!”
“I'm tired,” said Gregory. “We've bad a bad time getting through.”