“I?” she said.  “Why?”

“His speaking to you as he did; a thing on the face of it inexcusable—­”

“Why did he call me ’Madame d’Armand’?” she interposed.

I explained something of the mental processes of Amedee, and she listened till I had finished; then bade me continue.

“That’s all,” I said blankly, but, with a second thought, caught her meaning.  “Oh, about young Saffren, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I know him pretty well,” I said, “without really knowing anything about him; but what is stranger, I believe he doesn’t really know a great deal about himself.  Of course I have a theory about him, though it’s vague.  My idea is that probably through some great illness he lost—­not his faculty of memory, but his memories, or, at least, most of them.  In regard to what he does remember, Professor Keredec has anxiously impressed upon him some very poignant necessity for reticence.  What the necessity may be, or the nature of the professor’s anxieties, I do not know, but I think Keredec’s reasons must be good ones.  That’s all, except that there’s something about the young man that draws one to him:  I couldn’t tell you how much I like him, nor how sorry I am that he offended you.”

“He didn’t offend me,” she murmured—­almost whispered.

“He didn’t mean to,” I said warmly.  “You understood that?”

“Yes, I understood.”

“I am glad.  I’d been waiting the chance to try to explain—­to ask you to pardon him—­”

“But there wasn’t any need.”

“You mean because you understood—­”

“No,” she interrupted gently, “not only that.  I mean because he has done it himself.”

“Asked your pardon?” I said, in complete surprise.

“Yes.”

“He’s written you?” I cried.

“No.  I saw him to-day,” she answered.  “This afternoon when I went for my walk, he was waiting where the paths intersect—­”

Some hasty ejaculation, I do not know what, came from me, but she lifted her hand.

“Wait,” she said quietly.  “As soon as he saw me he came straight toward me—­”

“Oh, but this won’t do at all,” I broke out.  “It’s too bad—­”

“Wait.”  She leaned forward slightly, lifting her hand again.  “He called me ‘Madame d’Armand,’ and said he must know if he had offended me.”

“You told him—­”

“I told him ‘No!’” And it seemed to me that her voice, which up to this point had been low but very steady, shook upon the monosyllable.  “He walked with me a little way—­perhaps It was longer—­”

“Trust me that it sha’n’t happen again!” I exclaimed.  “I’ll see that Keredec knows of this at once.  He will—­”

“No, no,” she interrupted quickly, “that is just what I want you not to do.  Will you promise me?”

“I’ll promise anything you ask me.  But didn’t he frighten you?  Didn’t he talk wildly?  Didn’t he—­”

“He didn’t frighten me—­not as you mean.  He was very quiet and—­” She broke off unexpectedly, with a little pitying cry, and turned to me, lifting both hands appealingly—­“And oh, doesn’t he make one sorry for him!”