"I can quite easily do that," Chloe Carstairs answered quietly. "I hardly think I shall find it difficult to do what the new-woman novels used to call 'living one's own life'—down here."
"Certainly there isn't much going on." Anstice was puzzled by her manner. "Do I understand that you 'belong' here, as the country folks say?"
She put down her cup rather suddenly, and faced him squarely, her blue eyes full of a resolution which added several years to her age.
"Dr. Anstice." Her deep voice had lost its richness and sounded hard. "I should like to tell you something of myself. Oh"—she laughed rather cynically—"I'm not going to bore you with a rhapsody intended to convey to you that I am a much misunderstood woman and all the rest of it. Only, if you are to see me again, I think I should like you to know just who and what I am."
Mystified, Anstice bowed.
"Whatever you tell me I shall be proud to hear—and keep to myself," he said.
"Thanks." Her manner had lost its slight animation and was once more weary, indifferent. "Well, first of all, have you ever seen me before?"
"No. Though I confess that something in your face seemed familiar to me last night."
"Oh." She did not seem much impressed. "Well, to put it differently, have you ever heard of me?"
"No," said Anstice. "To the best of my belief I have never heard your name before."