“I? Oh!—” she laughed a little. “I have married.”
“So I heard.”
“You know my husband?” she said quickly.
“Only through his books,—that is, his earlier sketches and stories. I’ve been out of things five years, remember. I thought his work had great distinction even then, when he was quite a young writer.”
“Yes, it is brilliant.” Carey glanced at her. The words were evidently uttered in all sincerity, but there was something about her manner that struck him oddly.
“But you?” he asked. “I’m so anxious to hear about your work. It was such a pleasure to me to know that Goddard thought well of the stories you sent me. You know—if you haven’t forgotten—my opinion of them,” he added, smiling.
“I haven’t forgotten,” she returned slowly. “One doesn’t forget criticism of that kind, and sympathy. The stories were published in the Coterie,” she continued, indifferently. “They attracted a little attention at the time.” She paused, waving her fan with the graceful mechanical action he had observed before.
“And what have you done since?”
“Nothing. I don’t write now; at least, I don’t publish.”
“But—” he began, protestingly.