most deeply puzzled, and yet the most melancholy, he had ever seen upon it. Eugene Rennie's own look, as Orbison did not observe, was one of growing doubt and sharp compunction—the look of a man who finds himself involved in what he fears may prove to be, in the end, a grave mistake.
Miss Orbison had no such expression. She was serious, but not doubtful; and she began briskly to talk casual commonplaces with the anxious caller.
He stayed with them half an hour longer; then got to his feet, saying that it was time for him to be on his way to the station.
Orbison, who had not spoken since Claire left the room, turned his head and stared vaguely at his departing friend.
"We didn't find out, Eugene," he said.
"Didn't find what out?"
"We didn't find out what was in that pretty little head. And now we'll never know; but I'm sure—I'm sure"
"Yes?"
"In spite of all her lightness and her self-centred youthfulness" Orbison paused again; then he said, "I'm sure it was something fine and sweet—in spite of anything!"
