Gallatin stopped fencing. It was an art he was obliged reluctantly to confess, in which he was far from a match for this tantalizing adversary. So he relapsed into silence, aware that the longer the conversation continued the more vulnerable he became.
But she reassured him in a moment.
“Oh, why won’t you trust me?” she whispered, her eyes dark with interest. “I do want to help you if you’ll let me. It was only a guess, Phil, a guess founded on the most intangible evidence, but I couldn’t help seeing (you know a heaven-born hostess is Midas-eared and Argus-eyed) what passed between you and Jane Loring.”
“Nothing that I’m aware of passed between us,” he said quietly. “She was very civil.”
“As civil as a cucumber—no more—no less. How could I know that she didn’t want to go in to dinner with you?”
“You heard?”
“Yes, from the back of my head. Besides, Phil, I’ve always told you that your eyes were too expressive.” His look of dismay was so genuine that she stopped and laid her hand along his arm. “I was watching you, Phil. That’s why I know. I shouldn’t have noticed, if I hadn’t been.”
“Yes,” he slowly admitted at last. “Miss Loring and I had met before.”
At that he stopped and would say no more. Instinct warned her that curiosity had drawn her to the verge of intrusiveness, and so she, too, remained silent while through her head a hundred thoughts were racing—benevolent, romantic, speculative, concerning these two young people whom she liked—and one of whom was unhappy. They had met before, on terms of intimacy, but where?