"Tell me."
He looked so genuinely unhappy for her sake that, not being of the disposition that conceals its sorrows from the sympathetic, Felicity of course told him all about it.
He waited a minute, pale with interest, and then said—
"I appreciate your telling me this. But, of course, the whole trouble is entirely imaginary. Oh, I know that doesn't make it any better for the moment; but it's more evanescent."
"Imaginary? Why do you think that?"
"Well, the one thing that I pride myself on just the least little bit is an instinct—an instinct for temperament. I would undertake to swear that Chetwode is one of those exceptional people who only love one woman in their lives. He would never think of looking at any one except you. Of course, I know there are many men who don't really appreciate the most perfect woman if she happens to belong to them. But Chetwode isn't like that. He hasn't a fickle nature; he doesn't seek for variety and novelty. What you suppose is impossible to him. Not only now, but it always will be."
"You may be quite right about his temperament, Bertie. I dare say you are. But how do you account for the picture?"
"I don't. But there is an explanation. I don't pretend to be one of those wonderful thought-readers who, in some public calamity, see in the crystal everything they've read in the papers. You'll soon find out about it. It's some mistake."
She held out the picture to him.
"But she's very pretty, Bertie."