As he passed from view at the turn of the walk I transferred my gaze to her. Her eyes slowly lowered, and a faint flush came into her cheeks. Said I:
“You saw the news—about me?”
“Hartley and I were talking of it as you appeared.”
“You were not surprised?”
“Yes—and no,” replied she, with constraint and some confusion. “A year or so ago I—people thought—you and she had—had drifted apart. Then it looked as though you had come together again. It seemed the natural thing. She is beautiful and has so much charm.”
“She was unhappy in America. She wished to be free.”
Mary looked at me reflectively. “You are not—inconsolable, I see,” said she with a smile of faint raillery. “My brother has often told me about you—how indifferent you are to women. Perhaps that is why you are attractive to them.”
“Am I?” said I. “I did not know it.”
“You are terribly impersonal,” she went on laughingly. “Last summer I—well, I was not—that is, not exactly—trying to flirt with you. But your absolute unconsciousness of me as a woman was often very—baffling.”
I laughed. “You thought that?”