Grey hesitated a little moment.
“Of fortune and misfortune,” he answered, gravely; “of Fate and the pranks she plays; of life and its inconsistencies; of right and wrong and rewards and punishments; of love and hatred and jealousy; of fair women and brutal, selfish men; of a hundred and one things more or less interesting and absorbing.”
“Oh, you were busy!” the girl exclaimed. “I don’t wonder you didn’t hear my question. Altogether I have asked it three times.”
“I beg your pardon,” he pleaded contritely; “that was very rude of me. Won’t you ask it once more?”
They had a compartment to themselves and were seated opposite each other. The train had just left Asnières and was crossing the Seine.
“I was wondering whether you noticed the lady we passed in the garden of the Petit Trianon. I don’t believe you did.”
“We passed many ladies,” Grey temporised; “I can’t say that I noticed them all.”
“Oh, but this one was very beautiful,” she insisted. “She had such colouring and such lovely brown eyes, and I think she thought she recognised you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me at the time?” he asked, striving to appear unconscious.
“Why didn’t I? That’s a nice question. I nudged you and I tried to catch your eye; and, after we had gone on a few steps I begged you to look back, but you wouldn’t heed me. Oh, you were thinking very hard just then. Was it about fair ladies and brutal, selfish men, do you imagine?”