“Up to now, certainly.”
“And you really are not convinced?” she asked, eyeing him with a look of candid appeal to his better nature.
“It is your fault, Mrs. Witt.”
“My fault?”
“Yes. Why are you so hard to forget?” George thought there was no harm in putting it in a pleasant way.
“Ah, why was Miss—now is it Game or Games?—so hard to forget?”
“It is, or rather was, Game. And I suppose she was hard to forget for the same reason as you—would be.”
“And what is that?”
“If you ask my cousin, no doubt he will tell you.”
Neaera smiled.