The look she gave him, to anyone untrained or lacking telepathic powers, said she was her same old self. To James, it showed a deep unhappiness. Fred had never been a chipper girl-next-door type, but the difference in how she felt the last time they talked and now was a stark contrast.
Why not? The question was still echoing in her head and James could hear it.
James considered this as he, not giving indication of his own thoughts on his face, returned with a smile for her sarcasm and made his way over to her. He wasn't going to sit on the ground, of course. It would ruin his perfectly black men's peacoat. He may be disowned from the Weatherby inheritance, but he was still James Weatherby. James Weatherby didn't walk around campus with sticks and dead leaves stuck to his clothes.
"How is Mentoring going for you?" James pulled two black leather gloves from his pocket and tugged them onto his hands. He wasn't cold, but accessories were something to focus on to take the pressure off his line of questioning. As he waited for her response and for her to meet his gaze again, James glanced at her notebook briefly.