"I don't know. She blew away like the down of the dandelion."
"And you didn't see her again?"
"Never again."
"But you dreamed of her?"
"No. You misunderstand me. I didn't fall in love with her. I say that I might have loved her. Perhaps upon becoming acquainted with her, I might have smiled at my foolish belief—might have found her uninteresting."
"You said there was one or two—the other one? What about her?"
"I don't remember her at all. I say that I may have seen her, but I don't recall her."
"Perhaps the other one has read your story."
"Or perhaps her daughter honeyed over it on her wedding journey," he suggested, laughing.
A light vehicle rattled down the road, and she looked up. "I was thinking that someone might drive past and recognize us," she said. "It may be wrong, but I don't want father to know that we meet, except by accident."