"There you are—that brings it to the six months I gave you."
"I didn't mean I was thinking of it then. How could I be?"
"Of course you weren't thinking of it. But she was."
"Norah? Not she! A child of seventeen!"
"I don't mean Norah. I mean Viola."
"Viola?"
"Yes. You didn't see what the unscrupulous minx was after. She was plotting it and planning it the first time you were at Canterbury. I got a letter from her at Bruges—I can't show it you—telling me not to worry about you—I was worrying about you, though you were such a damn fool, if you don't mind my saying so. She said you'd got over it all right. She wouldn't be surprised if some day you married Norah.
"So you see," he said, "you needn't bother about Viola. She knew you couldn't keep it up for ever."
"Keep what up?"
(I knew; but something in his tone or in his twinkle made me pretend I didn't.)