"
Mrs. Vertrees seemed unaware of this unusual outburst. "I believe,"
she began, timidly, "he doesn't boast of--that is, I understand he
has never seemed so interested in the--the other one."
Her husband's face was dark, but at that a heavier shadow fell upon
it; he looked more haggard than before. "'The other one'," he
repeated, averting his eyes. "You mean--you mean the third son--the
one that was here this evening?"
"Yes, the--the youngest," she returned, her voice so feeble it was
almost a whisper.
And then neither of them spoke for several long minutes. Nor did
either look at the other during that silence.
At last Mr. Vertrees contrived to cough, but not convincingly.
"What--ah--what was it Mary said about him out in the hall, when she
came in this afternoon? I heard you asking her something about him,
but she answered in such a low voice I didn't--ah--happen to catch
it."
"She--she didn't say much. All she said was this: I asked her if she
had enjoyed her walk with him, and she said, 'He's the most wistful
creature I've ever known.'"
"Well?"
"That was all. He IS wistful-looking; and so fragile--though he
doesn't seem quite so much so lately.
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