"No, no. You don't understand. He's been superb. He's still superb. He would never have told me at all if he hadn't seen—"
She stopped with a little gasp.
"Yes? If he hadn't seen—what?"
"That I—that I—I care—for some one else."
"Oh! Well, of course, that does make a difference."
He fell back into the depths of his chair, his fingers drumming on the table beside which he sat. Minutes passed before he spoke again. He got the words out jerkily, huskily, with dry throat.
"Some one—in England?"
"No—here."
During the next few minutes of silence he pulled himself imperceptibly forward, till his elbows rested on his knees, while he peered up into the face of which he could still see nothing but the profile.
"Is he—is he—coming to Stoughton?"