He had sat talking to her, and
watching her with eyes of deep concern while, with infinite care, she
bestowed those beautiful gowns which mean so much in a woman's life.
His visit to her had not been one of mere companionship. It had been
inspired by a sympathy he had no other means of displaying. He had
talked to her; by every means in his power he had endeavored to
interest her in reminiscence of the week's doings. She listened
patiently, almost submissively, for she understood the promptings of
his endeavor. But she was too deeply plunged in her own discouragement
to display real interest, and it had required every ounce of courage
she possessed to prevent herself falling to weeping.
Nor was Bud at fault for a moment. He recognized the trouble lurking
in the sweet brown eyes. And with all his might he pretended not to
see. So, when his last effort to cheer had proved unavailing, he took
his departure under the excuse of his own packing.
He knew. Of course he knew. Had he not watched the progress of events
throughout the week? Had he not seen for himself how Jeff's fancy had
been caught? And she was very beautiful, this town-bred woman,
beautiful with that healthy, downy complexion which Bud found did not
fit with his idea of city "raised" women.
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