"Arthur, dear--why so gloomy?"
"I ain't--I mean, I'm not."
"You're not sulking about anything?"
"No."
"Then you're sick."
"I'm all right."
"But you didn't enjoy your dinner a little bit."
"I--I wasn't hungry, I guess," said Spike, frowning down at the paper.
But Hermione was beside him, her cool fingers caressing his curls.
"Boy, dear--what is it?"
"Say, Hermy, where'd you get them roses?" and he nodded to the flowers
she had set among her shining hair.
"Oh, Mr. Geoffrey brought them."
"Been here, has he?"
"Yes, he came in with Ann this morning--why?"
"Did he--did he stay long?"
"N-o, I don't think so--why?"
"Comes round here pretty often, don't he?"
"Why, you see, he's your friend, dear, and we are very near neighbours."
"Oh, I know all that, but--folks are beginning to--talk."
Hermione's smooth brows were wrinkled faintly and her caressing hand had
fallen away.
"To talk!" she repeated, "you mean about--me?"
"Yes!" nodded Spike, avoiding her eyes, "about you and--him!"
"Well--let them!" she answered gently, "you and Ann are all I care
about, so let them talk.
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