vague and questioning censure, unwilling censure. There were times when she wished to believe that certain people were better than the common crowd; she asked to be convinced, to be allowed moments of secret romanticism. She had thought Roland a romantic figure, one of those men upon whom women lavish an instinctive devotion. She had thought him strong, just, wise, deliberate, generous.
"Well,—Mrs. Marks?"
His eyes interrogated hers. His glance, falling upon the severity of her face, questioned it. She stood there with her back to the door, and it seemed to her that he was being reproached.
"It's not my business, sir; not like that other affair."
Roland turned on the music-stool.
"Yet it must be, or you would not have come."
"Perhaps"
"Tell me. You have something to tell me."
"It's about Sorrell."
She saw at once that he was not indifferent.
"You don't mean?"
"O, nothing of that kind, sir. But that other man"
"Buck?"
"Yes. It's unfair,—a shame, all the heavy luggage; the man's not strong,—physically I mean."
It seemed to her that Roland smiled and yet did not smile.
"I know," he said.
She gave a quick lift of the head, an intelligent and birdlike movement.
"About—his being delicate?"
"No. Buck's share of the work. I do see things, Mrs. Marks; I'm not asleep."
"I wondered."
Her eyes were still questioning. Since he knew what was happening her impulse was to ask him why he had not interfered, for his partiality seemed to her a very foolish blindness. Not to be able to see which was the better man! But, perhaps he did see? She looked across at him eagerly, tempted to venture farther, yet half afraid of what he might infer.
"It has made me angry," she said.
Roland stood up, and half turning towards the window, he spoke to her as though he were speaking to himself.
