She ain't like most women." Just then Horace turned the corner of the street leading to his school, and the conversation ceased, with an enjoinder on his part to Henry not to be disturbed about it, as he did not think it could be anything serious.
Henry's reply rang back as the two men went their different ways.

"I don't suppose it can be anything serious," he said, almost angrily.
Horace, however, was disposed to differ with him.

He argued that a woman of Sylvia Whitman's type does not change her manner and grow introspective for nothing.

He was inclined to think there might be something rather serious at the bottom of it all.

His imagination, however, pictured some disease, which she was concealing from all about her, but which caused her never-ceasing anxiety and perhaps pain.
That night he looked critically at her and was rather confirmed in his opinion.