“Your memory does not deceive you,” she said, and now there was a suggestion of satire in her voice, though he did not detect it. “Yes, your letter was brought to me by Mr. Fawcett. Why he should have brought it to me, I am sure you could hardly tell.”
“He may have thought that it contained something that should be seen only by the most intimate friend of the family,” he suggested. “You see, poor Dick's will mentioned you prominently. That probably impressed Fawcett. But you read what I wrote? You saw that I had not forgotten you—I mentioned your name?”
“Yes, you mentioned my name in a way that showed me you had forgotten me,” she replied.
“I don't seem to understand you to-day,” he said. “I suppose when one has been for eight or nine years without hearing a word of English spoken, one degenerates.”
“Alas! alas!” she said.
Then he went away.
CHAPTER XIV
She had, of course, left her seat to shake hands with him, and when he had gone she did not sit down. She stood where he had left her, in the centre of the room, with her eyes turned listlessly toward the window. She watched him buttoning up his coat as he walked quickly down the drive. A breath of wind whisked and whirled about him the leaves that had fallen since morning.