"Why should I think about him? He is not a friend of mine. You are the one to answer that, Anna. You like him—I have heard you say so."
"Never believe what a girl says. I adore Willy Forrest because he makes me laugh. I am like the poor little white rabbit which is fascinated by the great black wriggly snake. Some day it will swallow me up—perhaps on Thursday—after Ascot. I wish I could tell you. Pandora seems to have dropped everything out of her basket except the winner of the Gold Cup. If Willy Forrest is right, I shall win a fortune. But, of course, he doesn't tell the truth any more than I do."
Alban was silent a little while and then he asked her:
"Do you know much about him, Anna? Did you ever meet his people or anything?"
She looked at him sharply.
"He is the son of Sir John Forrest, who died in India. His brother was lost at sea. What made you ask me?"
He laughed as though it had not been meant.
"You say that he doesn't tell the truth. Suppose it were so about himself. He might be somebody else—not altogether the person he pretends to be. Would it matter if he were? I don't think so, Anna—I would much rather know something about a man himself than about his name."
She sat up in the punt and rested her chin upon the knuckles of her shapely hands. This kind of talk was little to her liking. She had often doubted Willy Forrest, but had never questioned his title to the name he bore.
"Have they ever told you anything about us, Alban?" she continued, "did you ever hear any stories which I should not hear?"