"Did you like him, Henry?"
"Like him?" She would have thought that the reply was merely inattentive; but Henry was never merely that.
"I hoped you would."
He did not answer at once. The waitress brought their order, and he served her; then, as the waitress moved away, he looked across at Constance with a long scrutiny.
"You hoped I would!" he repeated, with his slow smile. "Why?"
"He seemed to be in a difficult position and to be bearing himself well; and mother was horrid to him."
"How was she horrid?"
"About the one thing which, least of all, could be called his fault—about his relationship to—to Mr. Corvet. But he stood up to her!"
The lids drew down a little upon Spearman's eyes as he gazed at her.
"You've seen a good deal of him, yesterday and to-day, your father tells me," he observed.
"Yes." As she ate, she talked, telling him about her first meeting with Alan and about their conversation of the morning and the queer awakening in him of those half memories which seemed to connect him in some way with the lakes. She felt herself flushing now and then with feeling, and once she surprised herself by finding her eyes wet when she had finished telling Henry about showing Alan the picture of his father. Henry listened intently, eating slowly. When she stopped, he appeared to be considering something.
"That's all he told you about himself?" he inquired.
"Yes."
