mind.

Again a flush swept up Charley's face and seemed to blur his sight. His
monocle dropped the length of its silken tether, and he caught it and
slowly adjusted it again as he replied evenly:

"You always hit the nail on the head, Kathleen." There was a kind of
appeal in his voice, a sort of deprecation in his eye, as though he would
be friends with her, as though, indeed, there was in his mind some secret
pity for her.

Her look at his face was critical and cold. It was plain that she was
not prepared for any extra friendliness on his part--there seemed no
reason why he should add to his usual courtesy a note of sympathy to the
sound of her name on his lips. He had not fastened the door of the
cupboard from which he had taken the liqueur, and it had swung open a
little, disclosing the bottle and the glass. She saw. Her face took on
a look of quiet hardness.

"Why did you not come to the wedding? She was your cousin. People asked
where you were. You knew I was going."

"Did you need me?" he asked quietly, and his eyes involuntarily swept
to the place where he had seen the heliotrope and scarlet make a glow of
colour on the other side of the square. "You were not alone."

She misunderstood him. Her mind had been overwrought, and she caught
insinuation in his voice. "You mean Tom Fairing!" Her eyes blazed.
"You are quite right--I did not need you. Tom Fairing is a man that
all the world trusts save you."