"You, Gerald! How d'ye do?"
She had not seen him for days, and then it had been in the evening, so
that now in the strong afternoon sun she saw with a momentary shock that
he looked very ill indeed.
"Seedy?" she asked, some unanalysed feeling of understanding urging her
to an unusual gentleness of tone.
"Yes. What is wrong with you, Brigit?"
She had never forgiven him the affair of the evening when Tommy had
walked in his sleep, but her mind was too full of her own trouble to
have much room for resentment, and his value as an enemy had gone down.
He looked too broken and ill to be dangerous.
"I--I'm all right," she returned.
"Where are you walking so fast?"
"I'm just walking."
"I see. A race with the demons," he said in a curious, hurried voice. "I
do it, too. Everyone does, it seems. I just met Joyselle tearing out
Chelseaward--the father, I mean."
She looked up at him, her face clearing. "Ah!"
"Yes. I like him. He is a great artist and--a whole man. No disrespect
to your young man, my dear," he added, with a dismal attempt of his old
jaunty manner.
"Yes; he is 'a whole man.' Well, I must get on. Good-bye." With a nod
she left him and hurried on.
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