"'An illness,' I said; 'you had no strength left for coquetry?'
"'Puerperal fever,' she explained. 'My baby died, and my brain—it seemed to get paroxysms of depression and exaltation. Don't you think that a supernatural power ordains our moods, shifts the evenness of balance, makes us sometimes irresponsible?'
"There was a lambent excitement in her manner, which was usually gentle, almost lethargic.
"'We can't be responsible for our brains in illness, particularly fever. But you recovered?' I said, pointing to some fine azure drapery encrusted with Japanese gold.
"'I recovered; yes, but I never wore that.'
"'It belonged to someone you loved?'
"'It was mine,' she said, 'and was worn by a woman I hated. She borrowed it one night after coming over in the rain; she used to attend me devotedly during my illness.'
"'Yet you hated her?' I asked, taking my cue from the curl of her lip.
"'Not then. In those days I thought men were true—George truest of all—and women good.'
"I smiled, but she was quite serious.