"So have I," John answered lamely, not knowing exactly how to handle the situation. They were seated now on opposite sides of the hearth, and Elaine was taking the hatpins out of her hat with pretty feminine gestures that held John's attention.
"I was only going a lonely walk," she explained, "when I met you, but I won't go now; we'll have tea here together. You will notice," she went on, placing her hat on her knee and piercing it with her long hatpins, "that I have not scolded you for failing to write to me."
"I am sorry," said John, "but I have been tremendously occupied."
"I guessed," said Elaine, "that you were at home with your father. I am so glad of that, Bernard; I used to feel," she went on, hesitatingly, "that you were not treating him well, and that his indignation against you was—was—" she hesitated a moment—"well—justified."
John had been observing her closely.
"Why did you wire for me, Elaine?" he said, using her name for the first time.
Elaine looked at him, and then away. The colour rose to her cheeks, a delicate colour that enhanced her beauty.
"I don't know," she said. "I got a little frightened, I think. You see, your friend, Captain Cherriton, began to call on me rather regularly."
John pricked up his ears.
"Did he cross-examine you about me?"