"Monny wouldn't let me tell Bedr right out that he was mistaken about us. She said we wouldn't fib, but we'd act self-conscious, as if we had a secret, and he'd stumbled on it. He must have started the story—oh, if you could call it a story! I don't believe anything has ever been put into words. It was in the air. People got the idea. But Bedr must have put it into their heads. Neither Monny nor I did more than smile and look away, and change the subject if any one hinted. We said, 'You mustn't breathe such things to Mrs. East or Mrs. Jones, or they'll be angry.' Apparently nobody ever did dare to breathe it to them. And I think Monny mentioned you, too, Lord Ernest. She didn't want you to know. She was afraid you'd say that the whole thing was nonsense. I suppose it was Enid Biddell who came to you? She was afraid Mr. Snell —but it isn't worth talking about, now. Only she is a cat."
Miss Biddell had said exactly the same of Miss Guest. Naturally, however, I did not mention the coincidence.
"Now I've told you everything you wanted to know, haven't I?" Rachel went on. "Or were there any more questions you'd like to ask—I mean, about Bedr?"
"Only one more, I think. Did it ever strike you that he was curious about you—or rather, about Miss Gilder who, you both let him suppose, was really Miss Guest? Anything about your name?"
"Why, yes, he was curious. They say Arabs always are, if you let them be. Not that he is exactly an Arab. But I suppose Armenians are the same. He seemed to want to know things about me—what I'd done, where I'd lived, and—oh, lots of little questions he would ask. Monny and I made up our minds from the first, as I told you, that there mustn't be any fibs. I simply put him off. He never got anything out of me at all."
"I see," I said; and let myself drift away from her into thoughtfulness.
"Is that all, then?"
"Yes, that is all, thank you."
Her tone sounded as if she were relieved of a mental weight, and would like to go. I expected her to make some excuse: it would soon be time to dress for dinner: or she had a letter to write. But no, she lingered. She was trying to bring herself to say something. I waited, in silence, my eyes on the shining river, looking back at the golden trail of the sun that was like a rich mantle draping a gondola on a fête day in Venice.
"I suppose you think," she forced the words out at last, "that Willis Bailey wouldn't have—fallen in love—or proposed—if he hadn't thought like the rest, that I—I—" "I don't see why he shouldn't, Miss Guest."