"It was like the strangest dream in the world," she said. "You were at the station when I came, last night. You don't remember at all?"
His eyes downcast, his face burning hotly, he could only shake his head.
"Yes," she continued. "I thought no one would be there, for I had not written to say what train I should take, but when I stepped down from the platform, you were standing there; though you didn't see me at first, not until I had called your name and ran to you. You said, 'I've come to meet you,' but you said it queerly, I thought. And then you called a carriage for me; but you seemed so strange you couldn't tell how you knew that I was coming, and—and then I—I understood you weren't yourself. You were very quiet, but I knew, I knew! So I made you get into the carriage—and—and—"
She faltered to a stop, and with that, shame itself brought him courage; he turned and faced her. She had lifted her handkerchief to her eyes, but at his movement she dropped it, and it was not so much the delicate loveliness of her face that he saw then as the tears upon her cheeks.
"Ah, poor boy!" she cried. "I knew! I knew!"
"You—you took me home?"
"You told me where you lived," she answered. "Yes, I took you home."
"I don't understand," he stammered, huskily. "I don't understand!"
She leaned toward him slightly, looking at him with great intentness.
"You didn't know me last night," she said. "Do you know me now?"