“How do you do, Mr. Nickerson?” said Sheila, and thrust one bare arm through the chink to give her hand to Vickery. The arm was all he could see of her except a narrow longitudinal section of silhouette against the light over her mirror.
Vickery was so hurt, and so unreasonably hurt, by her failure to recall him who had cherished her remembrance all these years, that his surprise escaped him: “I met you once before, but you don’t remember me.”
She lied politely, and squeezed the hand she felt around hers with a prevaricating cordiality. “Indeed I do. Let me see, where was it we met—in Chicago, wasn’t it, this fall?”
“No; it was in Braywood.”
“Braywood? But I’ve never been in Braywood, have I? Mr. Reben, have I ever played Bray—Oh, that’s where my aunt and uncle live! But was I ever there?”
“Very long ago.”
“Oh, don’t say that! Not before my manager!”
“As a very little girl.”
“Oh, that’s better. You see, I go to so many places. And that’s where I met you? You’ve changed, haven’t you?”
She could see nothing of him except the large hand that still clung to hers. She got it back as he laughed: