He was curious about Hunt, of whom he thought daily; and such talk might yield him information about the blustering, big-hearted painter who was gypsying it down at the Duchess's.

But as the days passed she never mentioned Hunt again; not even to ask where he was or what he was doing.

She was adhering very strictly to the remark she had made the night Larry came here: "I don't want to know until he wants me to know." And so Hunt remained the same incomplete picture to Larry; the painter was indubitably at home in such surroundings as these, and he was at home as a roistering, hard-working vagabond at the Duchess's--but all the vast spaces between were utterly blank, except for the sketchy remarks Hunt had made concerning himself.
Larry had guessed that hurt pride was the reason for Hunt's vanishment from the world which had known him.

But he knew hurt pride was not Miss Sherwood's motive for making no inquiries.

Anger?
No.