Here were two people about to meet, each resolved to be silent, and each determined to hear the other's disclosures on an intensely interesting subject. As is usual in such cases, the lady yielded first; her opponent was habitually reserved, and it came as second nature to him to wait and to hold his peace. He had one false alarm during dinner, when his former playmate, addressing him across the table, said, with her brightest air,—
"I saw a particular friend of yours to-day; who do you think it was?"
"I have so many particular friends," he replied, "that's rather a large order."
"Well, a lady friend."
"A lady friend! They are not much in my way."
"A lady you knew in the Andamans," looking at him keenly.
He cast a quick, questioning glance at her, but remained otherwise dumb, and she, smiling at her own little ruse, said,—
"In short, our well-beloved Mrs. Creery! She was driving in the park, in a dreadful yellow affair, like an omnibus cut down, along with another remarkable old person. She was delighted to see me, and hailed me as if I had been a long-lost child!"
Mrs. Durand smiled to herself again. She was thinking of the battle royal she had fought with Mrs. Creery over the reputation of the very gentleman who was now her vis-à-vis.
"She asked me particularly for you, and sent you a message—I'm not sure that it was not her love—and told me to be sure and tell you that Monday is her day."