"But so long ago. I was afraid, really. I've been warning myself that you couldn't be expected to remember—and yet I knew I should be so pained if you forgot."
She made a little amiable movement of her hands. He understood it to signify that his doubts had done injustice to them both. Inwardly he laughed.
"Is your husband in Ostend, Mrs. Adaile?"
"No," she said, "no, he's in the Tyrol—Innsbruck. I'm here with my sister and my brother-in-law. You know them, don't you?"
"No, I've never had the pleasure. They weren't with you there."
"Ah, no," she said, "no, they weren't.... Ostend is very dull this year, don't you think?"
"I've found it very exciting; I saw you yesterday at dinner, and I've been trying to meet your eyes ever since."
"Really?" said the lady. She allowed him to meet them, and looked away, her expression vacillating between a pucker and a smile.
"My courage wasn't equal to risking a snub from you publicly, and you were never alone. You balked me last night, you escaped me this morning, and you drove me to desperation this afternoon. I ought to have known you wouldn't forget, but I always had misgivings, hadn't I?"
"Had you?" she said. The pucker was getting the upper hand. She played with the postcard.