"What did he say?" She interrupted swiftly.
"That at my age a man mustn't expect his heart to be the same as in his twenties."
A silence fell between them. Then Nan's hand stole out and clasped his. She had never imagined a world without this good comrade in it. The bare thought of it brought a choking lump into her throat, robbing her of words. Presently St. John spoke again.
"I've nothing to grizzle about. I've known love and I've known friendship—the two biggest things in life. And, after all, since . . . since she went, I've only been waiting. The world, without her, has never been quite the same."
"I know," she whispered.
"You Davenant women," he went on more lightly, "are never loved and forgotten."
"And we don't love—and forget," said Nan in a low voice.
St. John looked at her with eyes that held a very tender comprehension.
"Tell me, Nan, was it—Peter Mallory?"
She met his glance bravely for a moment.