"I do," he said briefly. "Why do you make such a sacrifice?"
"I never make sacrifices," she said, eluding him skillfully, "even for my friends. Don't make that mistake. I've told you I came because I'd rather be here than in New York. If I heard that your financial enemies were trying to ruin you, that only made me the more anxious to come. Besides, I had an idea that you might be lonely. Was I right?"
"Yes—I am."
"Was, you mean."
"Yes—was," he corrected. "I've been pretty busy, of course, night as well as day, but after New York this place is pretty quiet."
"Did you miss me?"
"Yes," frankly, "I did—you and I seem to get on pretty well. I think we always will."
"So do I. I've always wondered if I'd ever meet a man who hadn't been spoiled. And I was just about ready to decide that he didn't exist when you came along. The discovery restored my faith in human nature. It was all the more remarkable, too, because you were married. Most married men are either smug and conceited, or else dejected and apprehensive. In either case they're quite useless for my purpose."
"What is your purpose?" he asked.
"Psychological experiment," she returned glibly. "Some naturalists study beetles, others butterflies and moths. I like to study men."