"In the morning," she finished dryly, "Olga Tcherny found you there. I understand."
He rose and faced her uncomprehendingly. "Mrs. Hammond, do you mean that you believe—as she did?"
She turned quickly and thrust forth both of her plump jeweled hands, and he saw that her friendliness was in no way diminished.
"I'm not one to believe half-truths, Mr. Markham, when I hear whole ones," she said, smiling rosily. "If you had lied to me I should have known it. But you didn't and I believe in you."
She released his hand and made him sit again.
"I've never been so entertained and delighted since—since hundreds of years ago," she sighed. "You were mad—quite mad, both of you. And Hermia—" she stopped, sat quickly upright, and while he watched her, laughed deliberately. "Hermia comes back to New York and engages herself to—to Trevelyan Morehouse! The excellent Trevelyan—after Arcadia! And you?" She read his face like an open book, her humor dying in a gently smile.
"It doesn't matter about me, Mrs. Hammond," he said quietly.
"But I think it does," she insisted. "Do you mean that you can't understand?"
"Understand what, Mrs. Hammond?"
"How that poor child has suffered. Do you mean that you don't know why it is that she has ignored you and fled to Trevelyan Morehouse?"