"If I said it," she continued slowly, as if searching for a plausible excuse, and then giving it up, "I suppose I was trying to impress you. You mustn't expect me to be consistent all the time."
"I'll never expect you to be again," I said, now irritated by her contrariness. I suppose I showed it in my tone.
She came right over to me, and took my hand, sitting on the arm of my chair. "Oh, Chet," she pleaded, "don't mind me. I'm a fool, and I know it. I know you don't approve of me any more, but I can't stand it to have you cross with me. I can't bluff you any longer, so I might as well tell you. The fact is, my memory is bad. It's really a disease. Amnesia is the name of it. Now do you see? It isn't my fault, is it? I can't depend upon myself for anything. Sometimes I absolutely forget all about a thing that happened only yesterday. I have great blank spaces in my life when I don't know what has happened. It's perfectly awful! Did you ever hear of any one like that?"
"Do you really mean to tell me that you forget what you said to me about Browning?" I asked her, taking her hand, for I was filled with a sudden pity.
"Yes, Chet, sure I do!" She rolled my seal ring between her fingers as she looked down.
"And about preferring 'Joy' to 'Edna', too?"
"Oh, did I say that, too? Yes, I forget."
"It doesn't seem possible!" I exclaimed. Then, tentatively, almost fearfully, for it seemed the crux: "And about 'the island'?" I held my breath.
"What 'island'?"
I dropped her hand. It was too much for me. "Oh, never mind." I sighed. "I'm very sorry. But I don't quite see, yet. Has this anything to do with your refusal to play for me?"