"Almost as inconceivable as the fact that little more than six months ago you despised all this!" She made a gesture with her fan towards his shimmering coat.
"Was it only six months? It seems to belong to another life. You remember so well, mademoiselle."
"I?" Cleone saw her mistake, and made haste to cover it. "No, sir. It is dear Sir Maurice who remembers." Her eyes sought his face for some change of expression. But not an eyelash flickered; Mr. Jettan was still smiling.
"Now I am desolated!" he sighed. "Mademoiselle Cleone does not remember the manner of my going? But I see that it is so. She is blessed with forgetfulness."
Cleone's heart leaped. Was there a note of pique, of hurt, in the smooth voice?
"My memory is not of the longest either, mademoiselle, but I am sure that I am indebted to you."
"Really? I think you must be mistaken, sir."
"It is possible," he bowed. "Yet I seem to recollect that 'twas you who bade me go—to learn to be a gentleman."
Cleone laughed carelessly.
"Did I?—It is so long ago, I have forgotten. And—and here is Mr. Winton come to claim me!"