“Perhaps she did. But why should he do everything she asks him—such as she is?”
“I don’t know yet, but perhaps I shall know later. Not that he’ll tell me—for he’ll never tell me anything: he’s not,” I consistently opined, “one of those who tell.”
“If she didn’t ask him, what you say is a great wrong to her,” said Mrs. Nettlepoint.
“Yes, if she didn’t. But you say that to protect Jasper—not to protect her,” I smiled.
“You are cold-blooded—it’s uncanny!” my friend exclaimed.
“Ah this is nothing yet! Wait a while—you’ll see. At sea in general I’m awful—I exceed the limits. If I’ve outraged her in thought I’ll jump overboard. There are ways of asking—a man doesn’t need to tell a woman that—without the crude words.”
“I don’t know what you imagine between them,” said Mrs. Nettlepoint.
“Well, nothing,” I allowed, “but what was visible on the surface. It transpired, as the newspapers say, that they were old friends.”
“He met her at some promiscuous party—I asked him about it afterwards. She’s not a person”—my hostess was confident—“whom he could ever think of seriously.”
“That’s exactly what I believe.”