"Surely, since this has come, that will come also."
"And you—Mademoiselle?" I should not have asked that question had I known more of the world. It was tactless and unkind.
"For me it is no matter at all. I do not come in anywhere. As I said,
I am happy."
And turning quickly, yet not so quickly but that I saw her cheeks were flushed, she passed out of the room. In a moment Mrs. Falchion entered. There was something new in her carriage, in her person. She came towards me, held out her hand, and said, with the same old half-quizzical tone: "Have you, with your unerring instinct, guessed that I was leaving, and so come to say good-bye?"
"You credit me too highly. No, I came to see you because I had an inclination. I did not guess that you were going until Miss Caron told me."
"An inclination to see me is not your usual instinct, is it? Was it some special impulse, based on a scientific calculation—at which, I suppose, you are an adeptor curiosity? Or had it a purpose? Or were you bored, and therefore sought the most startling experience you could conceive?" She deftly rearranged some flowers in a jar.
"I can plead innocence of all directly; I am guilty of all indirectly: I was impelled to come. I reasoned—if that is scientific—on what I should say if I did come, knowing how inclined I was to—"
"To get beyond my depth," she interrupted, and she motioned me to a chair.
"Well, let it be so," said I. "I was curious to know what kept you in this sylvan, and I fear, to you, half-barbaric spot. I was bored with myself; and I had some purpose in coming, or I should not have had the impulse."
She was leaning back in her chair easily, not languidly. She seemed reposeful, yet alert.