She smiled. “But how did you know I was in the siege of Paris?” she asked, curious.
“How do I know? I know because I’ve seen that birthday card ye sent to Mrs. Povey in 1871, after it was over. It’s one of her possessions, that card is. She showed it me one day when she told me ye were coming.”
Sophia started. She had quite forgotten that card. It had not occurred to her that Constance would have treasured all those cards that she had despatched during the early years of her exile. She responded as well as she could to his eagerness for personal details concerning the siege and the commune. He might have been disappointed at the prose of her answers, had he not been determined not to be disappointed.
“Ye seem to have taken it all very quietly,” he observed.
“Eh yes!” she agreed, not without pride. “But it’s a long time since.”
Those events, as they existed in her memory, scarcely warranted the tremendous fuss subsequently made about them. What were they, after all? Such was her secret thought. Chirac himself was now nothing but a faint shadow. Still, were the estimate of those events true or false, she was a woman who had been through them, and Dr. Stirling’s high appreciation of that fact was very pleasant to her. Their friendliness approached intimacy. Night had fallen. Outside could be heard the champing of a bit.
“I must be getting on,” he said at last; but he did not move.
“Then there is nothing else I am to do for my sister?” Sophia inquired.
“I don’t think so,” said he. “It isn’t a question of medicine.”
“Then what is it a question of?” Sophia demanded bluntly.