Not even her commendation could keep a sharp anxiety from showing itself on Bulchester’s face.  “I have said nothing,” he answered, “it all might happen and he have no concern in it—­, I mean,” he caught himself back with a startled look and then went on with an assumption of coolness, “I mean exactly what I say, Mistress Archdale, simply that Edmonson does not please me so much as he did before I saw better people.  But I assure you that this has no connection with any special thing that he has done.”

“Or may do?” asked Elizabeth.

“Or that I believe he will do,” he answered resolutely.  But it was after an instant’s hesitation which was not lost upon one of his listeners who sat watching him gravely, and in a moment as if uttering her thought aloud, said,

“That is new; he used to please you entirely.”

Bulchester fidgetted, and glanced at Katie who had turned toward the speaker.  There was no need, he thought, of bringing out his past infatuation so plainly.  In the light of a new one, it looked absurd enough to him not to want to have it paraded before one of his present companions at least.  But Elizabeth had had no idea of parading his absurdities; for when he said apologetically that one learned in time to regulate his enthusiasms, she looked at him with surprise, as if roused, and answered that the ability to be a good friend was the last thing to need apology.  Then she sat busy with her own thoughts.

“What, the mischief, is she after?” thought the young man watching her as Katie talked, and there must have been strong reason that could have diverted his mind in any degree from Katie.  “Is it possible she has struck my uncanny suspicion?  If she has, she’s cool about it.  No, it’s impossible; I’ve buried it fathoms deep.  Nobody could find it.  It’s too evil a suspicion, too satanical, ever to be brought to light.  I wish to Heaven, though, I had never run across it, it makes me horribly uncomfortable.”  Then he turned to Katie, but soon his thoughts were running upon Elizabeth again.  “She’s one of those people,” he mused, “that you think don’t notice anything, and all at once she’ll score a hit that the best players would be proud of.  I can’t make her out.  But I hardly think Edmonson would have everything quite his own way.  Pity he can’t try it.  I’d like to see it working.  And perhaps some day—.”  So, he tried to put away from him a suggestion, which, dwelt upon, gave him a sense of personal guilt, because, only supposing this thing came that Edmonson had hinted at, it would be an advantage to himself.  He shivered at the suggestion; there was no such purpose in reality, he was sure of it.  Edmonson only talked wildly as he had a way of doing.  The very thought seemed a crime to Bulchester.  If he really believed, he ought to speak.  But he did not believe, and he could hardly denounce his friend on a vagary.  Still, he was troubled by Elizabeth’s evident pondering, and was glad to have the conversation turned into any channel that would sweep out thoughts of Edmonson from their minds.