"Glad to meet you, Miss Seldon."
Her eyes rained sweet pity on him, a tenderness potent enough to disturb the serenity of any young man not in armor.
"We—we've been so worried about you."
He laughed, genially and without resentment. "Awfully good of you. Shall I ring for the waiter?"
India rose. "I'm going riding with Ned and Moya," she explained.
Alone with the Westerner, Joyce felt her blood begin to quicken.
"Are you quite ... recovered?" she asked.
Their eyes met. In his there was a faint cynical smile of amusement.
"Quite."
She understood the double meaning in his words. Her lashes fell to the soft cheeks, then lifted again. "I thought perhaps there might be ... that you might still be...."