"If you could only know," she said, half absently, and the trouble shadow came quickly into the backgrounding depths of the beautiful eyes. "There is no real cause for enmity or hatred—absolutely none."
"I am thinking of you," he reminded her, reverting to the impossibility of associating that thought with the other.
"Thank you; I am glad you can make even that much of a concession. It is more than another would make." Then, with the unexpectedness which was all her own: "I am still curious to know what you did to Mr. Wingfield: that day when he so nearly lost his life in the laboratory?"
"At what time in that day?" he asked, meaning to dodge if he could.
"You know—when you had him here in your office, with Jerry and Mr. Bromley."
"I don't remember all the things I did to him, that day and before it. I believe I made him welcome—when I had to. He hasn't been using his welcome much lately, though."
"No; not since that day that came near ending so terribly. I'd like to know what happened."
"Nothing—of any consequence. I believe I told you that Wingfield was boring us with the plot of a new play."
"Yes; and you said you couldn't remember it."
"I don't want to remember it. Let's talk of something else. Is your anxiety—the trouble you refuse to share with me—any lighter?"