“No. Oh, I don’t pose as a saint,” he added, hastily. “But I have been tremendously busy and tremendously interested in other things, which have kept my mind occupied. Besides, I am a coward—I’m afraid I’d marry her, if she was very nice to me!”
“There are women who like to wander too—who make good companions on the road.”
“I know it, but....”
“Confess,” she broke in, “the real reason is that you have never been in love.”
“Yes,” he said soberly, watching the waiter as he filled their glasses. “I am ashamed to confess it, because it proves that I am lacking somewhere—but I suppose that is the real reason.” He picked up his glass and touched it to hers. “To our new friendship, which will never grow old!”
“That is the nicest toast I ever drank,” she said, and raised her glass to her lips.
“Tell me,” he went on, after a moment, “you said something at lunch to-day which puzzled me.”
“What was it?”
“You said to the countess that you had always understood she was Jeneski’s friend. What did you mean by that?”
She hesitated.