Jean felt herself jolted suddenly out of the placid reverie into which she had fallen.
“Yes. It is odd we should meet again so soon,” she assented hurriedly.
“The silence has been broken—after all! You may be sure, Miss Peterson, it was by no will of mine.”
Jean smiled under cover of the darkness.
“You’re not very complimentary,” she returned. “I’m sorry our meeting seems to afford you so little satisfaction.” There was a ripple of laughter in her tones.
“It’s not that.” As he spoke, he slackened speed until the car was barely moving. “You know it’s not that,” he continued, his voice tense. “But, all the same, I’m going to ask you to—forget Montavan.”
Jean’s heart gave a violent throb, and the laughter went suddenly out of her voice as she repeated blankly:
“To forget Montavan?”
“Please. I said—and did—a few mad things that day we spent together. It was to be an uncounted day, you know, and—oh, well, the air of the Alps is heady! I want you to forgive me—and to blot out all remembrance of it.”
He seemed to speak with some effort, yet each word was uttered deliberately, searing its way into her consciousness like red-hot iron.