But
none who knew Valdez well would have been in the least surprised. He was
the most generous of men, and particularly he could not bear to see a
pretty girl in sincere distress through no fault of her own. It was
Dulcie's simple sincerity that pleased him. He came across very little
of it in his own world. That world was brilliant, distinguished,
sometimes artistic, sometimes merely _mondain_. But it was seldom
sincere. He liked that quality best of all. He certainly was gifted with
it himself.
* * * * *
From this time, though Valdez still encouraged Dulcie to sing and
occasionally accompanied her, the slight tinge of flirtation vanished
from his manner. She felt he was only a friend. Did she ever regret it?
Perhaps, a little.
CHAPTER XXIX
'Bruce, said Edith, 'I've just had a letter from Aylmer, from
Eastcliff.'
'Oh yes,' said Bruce. 'Got him off to the seaside at last, did they?'
It was a Sunday afternoon. Bruce was sitting in a melancholy attitude on
a sofa in Edith's boudoir; he held _The Weekly Dispatch_ in his hand,
and was shaking his head over a pessimistic article when his wife
came in.
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