"He wasn't a bad chap, Grierson."
He softened, remembering Grierson.
"I can't think why you didn't care about him."
And at the thought of how Gwenda might have cared for Grierson and
hadn't cared his youth revived; it came back into his eyes and lit
them; it passed into his scowling face and caressed and smoothed it to
the perfect look of reminiscent satisfaction. Rowcliffe did not know,
neither did she, how his egoism hung upon her passion, how it drew
from it food and fire.
He raised his head and squared his shoulders with the unconscious
gesture of his male pride.
* * * * *
It was then that she saw for the first time that he wore the black tie
and had the black band of mourning on his sleeve.
"Oh Steven--what do you wear that for?"
"This? My poor old uncle died last week."
"Not the one I saw?"
"When?"
"At Mary's wedding."
"No. Another one. My father's brother."
He paused.
"It's made a great difference to me and Mary."
He said it gravely, mournfully almost. She looked at him with tender
eyes.
"I'm sorry, Steven."
He smiled faintly.
"Sorry, are you?"
"Yes. If you cared for him."
"I'm afraid I didn't very much. It's not as if I'd seen a lot of him."
"You said it's made a difference."
"So it has. He's left me a good four hundred a year."
"Oh--_that_ sort of difference."
"My dear girl, four hundred a year makes all the difference; it's no
use pretending that it doesn't.
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