His tone rebuked her.
"I don't want to be meddlesome, you know. I only thought—"
"Oh, I'm glad you spoke," he murmured. "I—I wanted to talk about her. You know, you and I—when you left me—there in the Park—you gave me the impression that you—er—that you didn't care for Miss Challoner any more—"
"Did I? I'm glad I did. That's the truth. I don't care for her. She cut me very prettily on the street the week after she got back from Europe. Evidently the antipathy is mutual."
He paused, considering.
"I'm sorry she saw fit to do that. That was foolish—very foolish of her."
"Wasn't it? Especially as I had about decided to forget that I'd ever been in Alençon—"
He put his hand over hers and held it there a moment.
"I want you to forget that, Olga," he muttered. "It—it never happened."
She smiled, her gaze on the andirons.