“Yes, yes, of course, I’ll go at once,” murmured poor little Miss Culpepper, hastily gathering up her knitting which had fallen to the floor, and making a courageous attempt to recover her wonted dignity. “Good night, James. I—I shall be very glad to see you again, as you say, one of these days.”
Grace accompanied her to the door, dismissed her with a kiss, and whispered a word of sympathy, then returned to Thomson, feeling more bewildered than ever.
“How very extraordinary that you and Miss Culpepper should be old friends,” she said, motioning him to a chair.
“Thank you, madam. Quite so,” he responded, seating himself bolt upright on the extreme edge of the chair, and holding his bowler hat on his knees. “I am sorry I did not remember the old lady at first. She was quite young then, as I was—a very nice young woman, now I come to think of it. Indeed, if I remember rightly, I had the intention at one time of asking her to be Mrs. Thomson, but fate intervened and we drifted apart.”
His manner, formal, precise, irreproachably respectful, yet seemed somehow curiously callous, and exasperated Grace, on behalf of her poor little friend.
“Evidently she has never forgotten you, Mr. Thomson,” she said, with some warmth. “And she is the kindest and most loyal little creature in the world. She would have made a good and most loving wife.”
“Quite so, madam. But even at the time I doubted if I was cut out for matrimony, and I have never seriously contemplated it since.”
“Why did you come to see me?” she asked point blank, as he paused, and sat gazing, not at her, but at the crown of his hat.
“It’s a little difficult to explain, madam,” he said, raising his eyes for a moment, but without meeting her direct gaze. “And first I beg of you not to consider it an impertinence. Then—may I ask if Mr. Carling has ever spoken of me to you?”
“Often—and always in the very highest terms.”