Say good-night, now--if you
want Mr. Lansing and your Uncle Philip to come to another party."
"I'll just whisper one more confidence very fast," she said to Boots. He
inclined his head; she placed both hands on his shoulders, and, kneeling
on the sofa, laid her lips close to his ear. Eileen and Selwyn waited.
When the child had ended and had taken leave of all, Boots also took his
leave; and Selwyn rose, too, a troubled, careworn expression replacing
the careless gaiety which had made him seem so young in Miss Erroll's
youthful eyes.
"Wait, Boots," he said; "I'm going home with you." And, to Eileen,
almost absently: "Good-night; I'm so very glad you are well again."
"Good-night," she said, looking up at him. The faintest sense of
disappointment came over her--at what, she did not know. Was it because,
in his completely altered face she realised the instant and easy
detachment from herself, and what concerned her?--was it because other
people, like Mr. Lansing--other interests--like those which so plainly,
in his face, betrayed his preoccupation--had so easily replaced an
intimacy which had seemed to grow newer and more delightful with every
meeting?
What was it, then, that he found more interesting, more important, than
their friendship, their companionship? Was she never to grow old enough,
or wise enough, or experienced enough to exact--without exacting--his
paramount consideration and interest? Was there no common level of
mental equality where they could meet?--where termination of interviews
might be mutual--might be fairer to her?
Now he went away, utterly detached from her and what concerned her--to
seek other interests of which she knew nothing; absorbed in them to her
utter exclusion, leaving her here with the long evening before her and
nothing to do--because her eyes were not yet strong enough to use for
reading.
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