“Didn’t Bob Armitage tell you?”
“Not yet,” said I. “But why should he?”
“That’s queer,” mused she. “Perhaps he thought there might be a little something in the talk about you and Mary, and that it would be well not to stir things up.”
“That might account for it,” I agreed.
She was studying me closely. “I believe you really didn’t care about Mary,” continued she. “I confess I was astonished when I first heard that you did. She’s—” Edna laughed—“hardly up to me.”
“Hardly,” said I.
“But let’s not talk of her. I’ve forgotten all that. I’ve come to make a last proposal to you.”
She was smiling, but I detected seriousness in her eyes, in her unsteady upper lip, in her hands trying not to move restlessly.
“You don’t realize what a strong hold you have on me, Godfrey. Is it love? Is it habit? I don’t know. But I can’t shake it off. Don’t you think me strange, talking to you in this way?”
“Why shouldn’t you?” said I.