All women jump to conclusions, and it is extraordinary how seldom they jump short. Seeing only what Lillian saw, knowing only what she knew, no man would have staked a definite opinion; but the other sex takes a different view. As she stood gazing at the rings her thoughts and her conclusions sped through her mind like arrows—all aimed and all tending towards one point. She remembered the day when she and Chilcote had talked of doubles, her scepticism and his vehement defence of the idea; his sudden interest in the book 'Other Men's Shoes', and his anathema against life and its irksome round of duties. She remembered her own first convinced recognition of the eyes that had looked at her in the doorway of her sister's house; and, last of all, she remembered Chilcote's unaccountable avoidance of the same subject of likenesses when she had mentioned it yesterday driving through the Park—and with it his unnecessarily curt repudiation of his former opinions. She reviewed each item, then she raised her head slowly and looked at Loder.
He was prepared for the glance and met it steadily.
In the long moment that her eyes searched his face it was she and not he who changed color. She was the first to speak. “You were the man whose hands I saw in the tent,” she said. She made the statement in her usual soft tones, but a slight tremor of excitement underran her voice. Poodles, Persian kittens, even crystal gazing-balls, seemed very far away in face of this tangible, fabulous, present interest. “You are not Jack Chilcote,” she said, very slowly. “You are wearing his clothes, and speaking in his voice but you are not Jack Chilcote.” Her tone quickened with a touch of excitement. “You needn't keep silent and look at me,” she said. “I know quite well what I am saying—though I don't understand it, though I have no real proof—” She paused, momentarily disconcerted by her companion's silent and steady gaze, and in the pause a curious and unexpected thing occurred.
Loder laughed suddenly—a full, confident, reassured laugh. All the web that the past half-hour had spun about him, all the intolerable sense of an impending crash, lifted suddenly. He saw his way clearly—and it was Lillian who had opened his eyes.
Still looking at her, he smiled—a smile of reliant determination, such as Chilcote had never worn in his life. And with a calm gesture he released his hand.
“The greatest charm of woman is her imagination,” he said, quietly. “Without it there would be no color in life; we would come into and drop out of it with the same uninteresting tone of drab reality.” He paused and smiled again.
At his smile, Lillian involuntarily drew back, the color deepening in her cheeks. “Why do you say that?” she asked.
He lifted his head. With each moment he felt more certain of himself. “Because that is my attitude,” he said. “As a man I admire your imagination, but as a man I fail to follow your reasoning.”
The words and the tone both stung her. “Do you realize the position?” she asked, sharply. “Do you realize that, whatever your plans are, I can spoil them?”
Loder still met her eyes. “I realize nothing of the sort,” he said.