Ellen, in her simplicity, had revealed that Nick had never read any of Christabel's books. Or was it simplicity?
I must get to work, Christabel thought.
There had been something in his eyes—a look of discontent. Perhaps already he was disillusioned, but too gallant a gentleman to let Ellen know. Perhaps that was the reason for his aloofness. When he had returned her dropped handkerchief, he had been careful not to let their fingers touch. He hardly looked at me, she thought. Was that the reason? What else? What other reason could there be?
Oh, if that is it, how well I understand, she told him in her mind. Happiness—loyalty—one makes one's choice.
She went to the mirror and looked deep into her own sad eyes. Child of sorrow, she thought, her fingers automatically pushing wings of bright hair forward. Then she rang for Alfred, who reported that Miss Beach had not yet returned and the gentleman was still waiting.
