“How are you, Freda?” he asked calmly.
She resented his use of her name though he had come to using it before their disastrous evening.
“Quite well,” she said, and looked at him evenly, waiting for him to pass her.
He did not pass. He lingered, showing in his face the return of that avid attraction which he had felt so strongly before. She was thinner than she had been when he had seen her last and the shadows under her eyes made her face more delicate—more interesting!
“I wanted to see you again and luck’s come my way. You know that I did call on you the next day at the Brownleys’ and found you’d gone. I’m afraid I acted like an awful fool that night. Didn’t I?”
“Worse than that.”
“But it truly wasn’t my fault. I had been drinking. I know I can’t stand the stuff. And you made me quite lose my head.”
She reflected that of course it hadn’t been his fault as much as Barbara’s. And not knowing or dreaming that he was the agency which had violated the privacy of those two days at the Roadside Inn, she did not persist in great resentment. She disliked him of course but she was very idle and ready for distraction.
He went on talking, eagerly.
“It’s been on my mind ever since. I hated to let you think I was like that. Look here, Freda, I’ve got a free afternoon. Come in and have a cool drink somewhere with me—won’t you?”