"Indeed!"
He tries to look indifferent, but his cousin's penetrating eyes seem to him to be reading his very soul.
"How dreadfully sorry he must be that he didn't leave Madrid!" she thinks, and aloud says, irritably, "Why on earth didn't you try to renew things with her all these three years?"
"I imagined that I had forgotten her."
"Well, so you had,—completely forgotten her, till you saw her here."
"On my honor, she is the only woman I have ever really loved."
"Oh, men always say that of somebody or another, generally of the most impossible people. George always declares that the only woman he ever really loved was a pastry-cook when he was at Christ-church."
"Dear Dorothy, don't joke. I assure you I am thoroughly in earnest."
"She certainly has forgotten you."
She knows that for him to be convinced of this is the surest way to revive a died-out passion.