“All men are alike,” she said, contemptuously.
“Then you have had similar experiences before?”
“Yes,” she replied, with a candor I could not help thinking was somewhat belated.
“In the Temple?” I asked.
“He made a fool of himself, just like you,” she retorted.
“Yet you assured me there was no one—”
“What business had you with my confidence?” she interrupted.
“I see,” I replied. “So you told what was not quite the truth? You were quite right; people are so apt to misunderstand these situations. In future I shall know better than to ask questions—because I shall be able to guess the answers. Good-bye.”
She replied with a distant farewell, and that was the end of a pretty charade.
I went away vowing that I should never think of her again; I lunched at the gayest restaurant to assist me in this resolution; I planned a series of consolations that should make oblivion amusing, even if not very edifying; yet early in the afternoon I found myself in her uncle's apartments, watching the old gentleman put the finishing touches to “A portrait from memory of Miss Kate Kerry.” That picture at least did not flatter! I had told him before of our ripening acquaintance and my engagement as secretary, and I think the General had enough martial spirit still left to divine the reason for my philanthropic ardor. To-day he quickly guessed that something unfortunate had happened.