"He just came into the Boltons as if nothing had happened, and he's talked all day as if nothing had happened?"
"That's exactly it."
"He's not mentioned his book?"
"Only what you heard at lunch."
"He is writing it?"
"One would gather so. You know as much about it as I do."
I gazed into the fire. A louder splash came from the pond—one of the three-pound rainbows. Julia resumed of her own accord.
"You see, when you left me in the Museum I really didn't know what to do. After what you'd told me I didn't want to risk upsetting him by simply walking in to his place unannounced. So I wrote that note, and he'd get it last night. And he was round early this morning. But he hasn't even mentioned the note. I suppose he got it, but things aren't in the least like what you told me. You told me he was passionately grateful at finding you. Well, that doesn't at all describe his manner to me. He's jolly, keen, full of enjoyment and zest at everything that comes along—and that's all. He must have understood my note; that's why I put in that bit about the dog; if he didn't understand he'd have to ask what that meant. But not one single word. What do you suppose has happened?"
A little disingenuously I asked her what she meant by "happened."
"To him of course. I've told you all I did. It must have been rather heartrending between you two; so why this perfect composure now that there are three of us?"