“Perhaps not,” he said, refusing to be drawn.
She allowed the subject to drop. It was characteristic of Clare in her lighter moments that her conversation skipped from subject to subject like a chamois on the heights. Those who knew her well, though, began to suspect in the end that there was often a method in her skipping. She now talked of the day’s journey, of the weather, of Mary’s good cooking, of a dozen minor matters. After a long time, when he might naturally be supposed to have forgotten what they had started with, she said offhand:
“Do you mind if I ask one question about myself?”
“Fire away.”
“You told me my name was Miss Clare Starling.”
“Do you suspect otherwise?”
“What am I doing with a wedding-ring?”
It took him unawares. He stared at her a little clownishly. “I—I never noticed it,” he stammered.
“It’s hanging on a string around my neck.”
“Your husband is dead,” he said bluntly.