But _would_ she have done as much for Percy Lestrange? Lionel
kept asking himself. He was vain enough to think she would not. Who had
been her _protege_ all this time? To whom had she given unobtrusive
little hints when she thought these might be useful? In whose exploits
and triumphs and failures had she shown an exceptional interest and
sympathy? Whom had she permitted to go fishing with her on those long
days when the world seemed to belong to the two of them? Whom had she
admitted into the little dell above the Geinig Pool which was her chosen
and solitary retreat? And he could not but reflect that while there were
plenty of women who were eager to present him with silver
cigarette-cases, blue and white flower-jars, and things of that kind,
there was not one of them, as he believed, who would dip her little
finger in a bottle of ink for his sake. More than that, which of them
would herself have dared ridicule in order to save him from ridicule?
And in what light should he regard this suddenly prompted action on her
part, which seemed to him so bewildering at the time, but which she
appeared to look on as only a sort of half-humorous freak of friendship?
These speculations only came back to the original question, or series of
questions, that had already puzzled him.
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