"Good heaven!" she cried, starting up from the bench on which we were sitting in the loggia. There was a queer expression in her eyes. "Hasn't—hasn't she ever hinted at—hasn't she mentioned any one at all?"
"Not to me."
Mrs. Titus was agitated, I could see that very plainly. A thoughtful frown appeared on her smooth brow, and a gleam of anxiety sprang into her eyes.
"I am sure that she has had no opportunity to—" She did not complete the sentence, in which there was a primary note of perplexity and wonder.
It grilled me to discover that she did not even so much as take me into consideration.
"You mean since the—er—divorce?" I inquired.
"She has been in seclusion all of the time. She has seen no man,—that is to say, no man for whom she could possibly entertain a—But, of course, you are mistaken in your impression, Mr. Smart. There is absolutely nothing in what you say."
"A former sweetheart, antedating her marriage," I suggested hopelessly.
"She has no sweetheart. Of that I am positive," said she with conviction.
"She must have had an army of admirers. They were legion after her marriage, I may be pardoned for reminding you."