“Oh, no reason at all!” I said testily. I felt testy, as if from a personal injury. “Only when one has a friend, it is agreeable to believe that out of sight is not immediately out of mind. But, of course, I am a woman. Women’s memories are proverbially longer than men’s.”
The speed slackened still further. Now we were rumbling along at a speed which made conversation easy. The blue eyes gave me another keen glance.
“Women burden their memories with a thousand trivialities. Men brush them aside, and keep to the few that count. In the big things of life they are less forgetful than women!”
I smiled, a slow, superior smile, and spoke in a forbearing voice:—
“Do you think you—er—really understand very much about women?”
“No—I don’t. How can I? I don’t know any,” he replied bluntly, and the answer was so surprisingly, illogically different from what I expected, that involuntarily I laughed, and went on laughing while he stammered and tried to explain.
“Of course I have my opinion—every fellow has. One has eyes. One can’t go through life without seeing. But, personally, it’s quite true. I don’t know any. Never have done!”
“Your mother?”
“You would think so, but we are too much alike—tongue-tied—can’t say what we feel. She is more at home with my sister, who chatters from morning till night, and has no reticences, no susceptibilities. We care for each other; to a point we are good friends, but beyond that—strangers.”
I didn’t laugh any more.