"To go back to what we were saying," Daphne began, when they were seated, that evening, on the hilltop. All around them the view of the world rose to meet the sky, glowing in the west, purple in the east, while the pale planets shone, and below them the river glassed and gleamed in its crooked bed. "I ask you seriously," she said. "What was the trouble between you?" Doubtless she had a reason for asking, but it was not the one that she proceeded to give. "Had you—have you, perhaps—any claims in a business way against him? Because, if you had, it would be most unfair to his father"—The words gave her difficulty; but her meaning, as forced meanings are apt to be, was more than plain.
Thane was not deceived: a woman who yields to curiosity, under however pious an excuse, is, to say the least, normal. Her thoughts are neither in the heavens above nor in the grave beneath. His black eyes flashed with the provocation of the moment. It was instinct that bade him not to spare her.
"We quarreled," he said, "in the orthodox way,—about a woman."
"Indeed!" said Daphne. "Then you must pardon me."
"And her name," he continued calmly.
"I did not ask you her name."
"Still, since we have gone so far"—
"There is no need of our going any farther."
"We may as well,—a little farther. We quarreled, strangely enough, about you,—the first time he ever spoke of you. He would not have spoken then, I think, but he was a little excited, as well he might have been. Excuse me?" He waited.
"Nothing!" said Daphne. She had made an involuntary protesting sound.