What trouble had befallen this woman, so gracious, so facile, so worshipful in her charm of manner and utterance during the years he had known her, that she remained listless when all about her was life and joyance, she, the cynosure of many eyes by her costumes and graceful carriage, cowering from recognition? Here was a mystery, though she had repudiated the word, and a mystery which, thus far, defeated his sub-conscious efforts at solution.
She lifted her eyes to his. Her expression was forlorn, compelling pity by its utter desolation.
"What does he mean?" she asked plaintively. "Why has he not spoken clearly? Can you tell me what it is, this great happiness, which has entered, so strangely, into his life and mine?"
"I have never met any man who knew exactly what he meant to say, and exactly how to say it, better than Cyrus J.," said Pyne.
"But he has written to you, surely. Does he give no hint?"
"His letter is a very short one. To be candid, I have hardly made myself acquainted with its contents as yet."
"You are fencing with me. You know, and you will not tell."
Her mood changed so rapidly that Pyne was not wholly prepared for the attack.
"It is a good rule," he said, "never to pretend you can handle another man's affairs better than he can handle them himself."
He met her kindling glance firmly. The anger that scintillated in her eyes almost found utterance. But this clever woman of the world felt that nothing would be gained, perhaps a great deal lost, by any open display of temper.