"Felicity's gone," she said in a voice that he hardly recognized as her own. "She went with Dunham, the afternoon of the day you left for the South. I did not tell you then because—"
It seemed too obvious, so she left it unsaid.
At that he reddened and was a little ashamed and humbler than ever at heart. But he'd not thought of Felicity for weeks; he'd never thought of her like this.
"Oh," was all he could manage. "Oh. And you—?"
She thought she understood his blankness.
"I was just going myself."
"Where?" He was suddenly afraid that it was too late for his plan,—that it had always been too late.
"I don't know," she answered. "Home, maybe—where I used to live. It doesn't much matter—anywhere."
Her eyes had not once left his face. And now he saw that they were as changed as her voice. He would have said, had they been other than hers, that they were bitter; no, not bitter; sardonic and mocking. Temporarily like Felicity's. And she must be very tired, judging from her voice, even more tired and wan than she looked.
The phrases which he had rehearsed deserted him treacherously.