"You never answered my letters; I could hardly expect it. But I do hope you believe I felt for your grief?"
"Yes," she answers, simply; "I always felt sure of that."
"I am glad you say so. When you never wrote I thought you were offended, indifferent, perhaps. It has been a terribly blank time for me."
"I think you have no right to tell me that," she says, flushing and paling with nervous agitation. "I cannot help you, and it only adds to the sufferings of my own life that yours is also sad."
"Sad!" he echoes, wearily. "If you only knew how sad. But you are right; I ought not to speak of that. How strange it seems to meet you here; almost makes one believe in Fate! To think that I rose this morning and rode off haphazard, not even guessing you were within a hundred miles of me, and now, at evening, I am sitting by your side!"
"How is it you have forsaken the London season?"
"It I told you the real truth you would be angry, and I cannot utter conventional lies to you, Lorry."
She trembles a little. Her eyes go out to the shining river that mirrors the silver glory of the starlight. At her heart a dull pain beats. "Your friends, the Americans, where are they?" she asks evasively.
"In Paris, I believe. At least, they may have left now; but they were there up to May. Nan is mad about Paris." "Nan," be it remarked, is what he always calls Miss Anastasia Jefferson. Lauraine knows this, and smiles a little.
"You and she are as great friends as ever, I suppose?" she remarks.