“Mrs. Falconer, you are so startlingly like one I used to know that when you appeared before me I did not remember you as Mrs. Falconer, and I called you by that name unwittingly. No offense to you was intended. I did not know that you were called Pansy.”
“Yes, that is my name. I was Pansy Wilcox when Colonel Falconer married me. And so you say that I resemble some one you used to know, Mr. Wylde? How strange!” Pansy said, trying to draw him into some reminiscences of the past, womanlike, wishing to know whether he remembered her with love or remorse.
He sighed heavily, and answered:
“Yes, you are the image of one I loved and lost. Do you remember the night I came to your house, Mrs. Falconer? I came very near calling you Pansy then—I was so startled at the first sight of your face. But while you were singing I recovered myself so that I could greet you calmly. It was different just now, for I was thinking of that other Pansy, and you came upon me so suddenly that I had no time for thought, and I called you by her name.”
“It was some one you loved?” Pansy said, in a low, soft voice.
“Loved!” exclaimed Norman Wylde hoarsely, and his dark eyes seemed to burn into her soul as he added: “Love is hardly the word. I worshiped, adored my little Pansy.”
“Did she die?” asked Pansy gently.
“Yes, she died,” he replied hoarsely; then, pausing abruptly: “Has not Juliette Ives told you all about it?” he asked.
“No.”
“It is a wonder,” he muttered.