to which she had vowed herself, though the effort would have been easier had he not rendered her self-conscious by scanning her so keenly out of his little gray-green eyes.  Nevertheless, she was pleased with the manner in which she was acquitting herself, giving him his tea and taking her own with no sign of embarrassment.  As on the preceding day, it was this perfection of acting, as he chose to call it, that exasperated his restless suspicion more than any display of weakness.

The thought that she was keeping her true self locked against him had, during the last twenty-four hours, become an obsession, making it impossible for him to eat or to sleep.  In her serene, impeccable bearing he saw nothing but the bars up and the blinds drawn down.  An instant of faltering or self-betrayal would have admitted him to at least a glimpse of what was passing within; but through this well-balanced graciousness it was as difficult to get at her soul as to read the mind of the Venus of Milo in the marble nobility of her face.  He had led her from room to room, describing one, explaining another, and apologizing for a third, but all the while trying to break down her guard, only to find, as they returned to the point at which they started, that he had failed.  It was with nerves all unstrung, and with a lack of self-command he would have been, in his saner senses, the first to condemn, that he strode up at last and rapped sharply at the door of her barricaded citadel.

“Why did you never tell me that you knew Norrie Ford—­years ago?”

He was putting his empty cup on the table as he spoke, so that he could avoid looking at her.  She was glad of this respite from his gaze, for she found the question startling.  Before the scrutiny of his eyes was turned on her again she had herself in hand.

“I should probably have told you some time.”

“Very likely.  The odd thing is that you didn’t tell me at once.”

“It wasn’t so odd—­given all the circumstances.”

“It wasn’t so odd, given some of the circumstances; but given them all—­all—­I should say, I ought to have known.”

She allowed a few seconds to pass.

“I suppose,” she said, slowly, then, “that may fairly be considered a matter of opinion.  I don’t see, however, that it makes much difference—­since you know now.”

“My knowing or not knowing now isn’t quite the point.  The fact of importance is that you never told me.”

“I’m sorry you should take it in that way; but since I didn’t—­and the matter is beyond remedy—­I suppose we shouldn’t gain anything by discussing it.”

“I don’t know about that.  It seems to me a subject that ought to be—­aired.”

She tried to smile down his aggressiveness, succeeding partially, in that he subdued the quarrelsomeness of his voice and manner to that affectation of banter behind which he concealed habitually his real self, and by which he most easily deceived her.