Ann went off into a small gale of laughter.
“Does a man ever notice anything unless it’s right under his nose?” she demanded dramatically of the universe at large. “My dear,” she went on, “his face altered the instant you mentioned Mrs. Hilyard’s name.”
“Well, but why should it?” demanded Robin, still at sea.
“I think,” she pronounced oracularly, “that a Mrs. Hilyard must have played a rather important part in Mr. Coventry’s life at one time or another.”
“Well, it’s no business of ours if she did,” responded Robin unsympathetically.
“No. But it would be queer if the Mrs. Hilyard who’s bought the Priory happened to be the other Mrs. Hilyard—the one Mr. Coventry knew before.”
“We’ve no grounds for assuming that he ever knew a Mrs. Hilyard at all, and if he did—as I said before, it’s no business of ours.”
There never was a real woman yet who failed to be intrigued by the suggestion of a romance lying dormant in the past life of a man of her acquaintance, and Ann was far too essentially feminine to pretend that her interest was not piqued.
“No, of course it’s no business of ours,” she agreed. “But still, one may take an intelligent interest in one’s fellow beings, I suppose.”
“It depends upon circumstances,” replied Robin. “I’m here as Coventry’s agent, and my employer’s private affairs are no concern of mine.”