"You're dreaming, Mr. Markham," she said, distinctly. "I haven't the least idea what you're talking about."
"You love me—" he stammered.
"I?"
Her laughter checked him effectually. He stood, his full gesture of entreaty frozen into immobility. Then slowly his arms relaxed and he stood awkwardly staring, now thoroughly awake. She meant him to understand that Vagabondia was not—that their week in Arcadia had never been.
He gaped at her a full moment before he found speech.
"You wish to deny that you and I—that you were there with me—in
Normandy?" he stammered.
"One only denies the possible, Mr. Markham," she said with a glib certitude. "The impossible needs no denial. I was in Paris and in Switzerland this summer. Obviously I couldn't have been in Normandy, too."
"I see," he muttered mechanically. "You were in Switzerland."
"Yes. In Switzerland, Mr. Markham," she repeated.
He turned slowly and walked toward the window, his hands behind him, struggling for control. When his voice came, it was as firm as her own.