“You know that is not true,” she said warmly. “You know that Travers Gladwin is just mad about art. How can you say such a thing, and in such a sarcastic tone of voice?”
“Well,” the young man defended himself, inwardly chuckling, “you know how his memory lapsed in regard to that heroic affair at Narragansett.”
Helen Burton turned and faced him with flashing eyes.
“That was entirely different. It simply showed that he was not a braggart; that he was different from other men!”
The words were meant to lash and sting, but the passion with which they were said served so to vivify the loveliness of the young girl that Travers Gladwin could only gaze at her in speechless admiration.
When her glance fell before the homage of his regard he took hold of himself and apologized on the ground that he had been joking.
Then he made the rounds of the treasure room, pointing out and giving the history of each precious family heirloom or art object with an encyclopedic knowledge that should have caused his companion to wonder how he knew so much. Several times he slipped in the pronoun I, hoping that this might have some effect in waking Helen from the obsession that any other than he could be the real Travers Gladwin.
But alas! for his subtle efforts, the hints and innuendoes fell on deaf ears. She accepted his fund of information as a second-hand version, exclaiming once:
“What a splendid memory you have!”