“And she didn’t tell you that she had been here again?”

“There was hardly time, I suppose—­there were people about—­” he floundered.

“Ah, she’ll write, then.”

He regained his composure.  “Of course she’ll write:  very often, I hope.  You know I’m absurdly in love,” he cried audaciously.

She tilted her head back, looking up at him as he leaned against the chimney-piece.  He had leaned there so often that the attitude touched a pulse which set up a throbbing in her throat.  “Oh, my poor Thursdale!” she murmured.

“I suppose it’s rather ridiculous,” he owned; and as she remained silent, he added, with a sudden break—­“Or have you another reason for pitying me?”

Her answer was another question.  “Have you been back to your rooms since you left her?”

“Since I left her at the station?  I came straight here.”

“Ah, yes—­you could: there was no reason—­” Her words passed into a silent musing.

Thursdale moved nervously nearer.  “You said you had something to tell me?”

“Perhaps I had better let her do so.  There may be a letter at your rooms.”

“A letter?  What do you mean?  A letter from her? What has happened?”

His paleness shook her, and she raised a hand of reassurance.  “Nothing has happened—­perhaps that is just the worst of it.  You always hated, you know,” she added incoherently, “to have things happen:  you never would let them.”

“And now—?”

“Well, that was what she came here for:  I supposed you had guessed.  To know if anything had happened.”

“Had happened?” He gazed at her slowly.  “Between you and me?” he said with a rush of light.

The words were so much cruder than any that had ever passed between them that the color rose to her face; but she held his startled gaze.

“You know girls are not quite as unsophisticated as they used to be.  Are you surprised that such an idea should occur to her?”

His own color answered hers:  it was the only reply that came to him.

Mrs. Vervain went on, smoothly:  “I supposed it might have struck you that there were times when we presented that appearance.”

He made an impatient gesture.  “A man’s past is his own!”

“Perhaps—­it certainly never belongs to the woman who has shared it.  But one learns such truths only by experience; and Miss Gaynor is naturally inexperienced.”

“Of course—­but—­supposing her act a natural one—­” he floundered lamentably among his innuendoes—­“I still don’t see—­how there was anything—­”

“Anything to take hold of?  There wasn’t—­”

“Well, then—?” escaped him, in crude satisfaction; but as she did not complete the sentence he went on with a faltering laugh:  “She can hardly object to the existence of a mere friendship between us!”

“But she does,” said Mrs. Vervain.