"What's a coincidence--and odd--and singular?"
Nothing could have been grimmer than the tone in which Miss Forster put her question. She had taken up an attitude before the empty fireplace which was almost masculine, and again there was something which was almost masculine in the curt, unceremonious fashion of her speech; nothing could have been in more striking contrast than the other's airs and graces of a fine lady.
"That you should have said such a thing as that to me about dear old Sydney."
Miss Forster bit her lip.
"Have the goodness not to speak of Mr. Beaton in my presence by his Christian name."
"My dear Miss Forster, why not? When he and I have been such friends; I've always called him Sydney."
"Whether that is or is not a lie I am not in a position to say; you'll speak of him as Mr. Beaton to me. Where is Mr. Beaton?"
"That's what I said was so odd, so singular, such a coincidence. That you should put such a question to me, when one of the chief reasons why I was so anxious to have a talk was because I wished to put exactly the same question to you--where is Mr. Beaton?"
"Do you mean to say that you don't know?"
"I've no more idea than the dead."