"I said as light-heartedly as we can."
"What makes you think that Chip and I—I mean," she corrected, with some confusion, "Mr. Walker and I—want to do it at all?"
"Isn't that rather evident?"
"I didn't know it was."
Chip glanced at them over his shoulder. It seemed to him that Lacon's look was one of pity.
"You met in England," the latter said, displaying a hesitation unusual in him, "with something—something more than pleasure, as I judge; and—and Mr. Walker is here."
"Yes, by accident," she declared, hurriedly. "It was by accident in England, too."
He lifted his fine white hand in protest. "Oh, I'm not blaming you. On the contrary, nothing could be more natural than that you should both feel as I—I imagine you do. You're the wife of his youth—he's the husband of yours. The best things you've ever had in your two lives are those you've had in common. That you should want to bridge over the past, and, if possible, go back—"
"We've burned our bridges," she interrupted, quickly.
"Even burned bridges can be rebuilt if there's the will to do it. The whole question turns on the will. If you have that I want you to understand that I shall not be—be an obstacle to the—to the reconstruction."