And Farrell stood back a couple of paces. To do him
justice, he was in no wise a thruster.
"It's odd," she went on, "that we haven't run across one another
until this moment. What's your business, over yonder? if that's not
a rude question."
"It's a natural one, anyhow," Foe answered. "My business? Well, it
has been suggested to me that a trip in the States, to see what
they're doing in the way of scientific outfit and, maybe, get hints
for a new laboratory, might not be waste of time."
"Yes, I know; I've heard," she said softly. "It's splendid to find
you taking it like this . . . picking up the pieces, eh? . . .
I wonder if"--she hesitated--"if I might ask you some questions?
. . . Just as much as you choose to tell: but something to put into
a letter to our Roddy, you know. Any news of you will be honey to
him. . . . You'll be writing from New York, of course. But one man
doesn't tell another that he's looking brave and well; and yet that's
often what the other may be most wanting to know."
Foe was touched (so he's told me). He said some ordinary thing that
tried to show he was grateful, and Constantia and her mother passed
on.
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