"Yes," he replied, "I confess—I'm curious"—puff, puff—"though not so much about the where"—puff—"as about the why. Other forms of suicide may be less picturesque than flying, but they doubtless have other—homelier—virtues to recommend them. If I wished to die suddenly I think I should simply blow out the gas. Do you come from Quemscott, Simsbury or perhaps further?"
He asked the questions as though more from a desire to be polite than from any actual interest.
"No—from Westport. You know I live there."
"No—I didn't know it. Curiously enough in the back of my head I've not a notion that somewhere—but not in Westport—you and I have met before."
"I can't imagine where," said Hermia promptly.
He rubbed his head and thatched his brows.
"Paris, perhaps,—or—it couldn't have been in Normandy?" he asked.
"I've never been to Normandy. Besides, if we had met, I probably would have remembered it. I'm afraid you're thinking of some one else."
"Yes, perhaps I am," he said slowly. "I've got the worst memory in the world—"
"Mine is excellent," put in Hernia.