She stared at me in pure astonishment.
"You can hardly have guessed accurately, then," she remarked.
"Surely," said I, "it needs no magician to discover the giver. I know but one man in London who can hope to gain aught by slandering me to you."
Ilga gave a start of alarm. It seemed almost as though I were telling her news, as though she did not know herself who gave her the picture; and for the rest of my visit she appeared absent and anxious. This was particularly mortifying to me, since I thought the occasion too apt to be lost, and I was minded to open my heart to her. Indeed, I began the preface of a love-speech in spite of her preoccupation, but sticking for lack of encouragement after half-a-dozen words or so, I perceived that she was not even listening to what I said. Consequently I took my leave with some irritation, marvelling at the flighty waywardness of a woman's thoughts, and rather inclined to believe that the properest age for a man to marry was his ninetieth year, for then he might perchance have sufficient experience to understand some portion of his wife's behaviour and whimsies.
My mortification was not of a lasting kind, for Ilga came out on to the landing while I was still descending the stairs.
"You do not know who gave me the picture," she said, entreating me; and she came down two of the steps.
"It would be exceeding strange if I did not," said I, stopping.
"You would seek him out and----" she began.
"I had that in my mind," said I, mounting two of the steps.
"Then you do not know him. Say you do not! There could be but one result, and I fear it."