She smiled, as she had before. Then I helped her on with her coat, and gathered up the magazines. We stood there, awkwardly.
Finally I said—“Well, we are n't quite there yet. We may as well sit again.”
Then the train slowed down, and dallied along by jerky stages.
“Anthony,” said she. “I've been thinking, you never saw him in his younger days. He was a very likeable man, dear. He got on with people. And he was a good business man. Big and bluff, you know, and strong. I— I've been thinking—we should n't have married, he and I. That was a mistake. I was too young to know what marriage means. And he was very positive. But I can't help wishing you had seen him—before. I really think you would have liked him, Anthony. Strong men always did.... You don't think it strange of me?”
“Heloise, dear,” said I, “I've been thinking the same strange thoughts. I did like him. He never really knew what he was doing. Even after what happened—what he tried to do—I have n't been able to feel any hatred. No, not even anger. Nothing but a queer sort of sorrow.”
“Oh, Anthony,” she breathed, her eyes shining. “Do you feel that way?”
Then she said—“I've wanted to ask you.... It's difficult... did he know about—us, Anthony?”
I could n't say much now. But I nodded.
Her eyes were on mine; her lips were parted. “You told him, Anthony?”
I nodded again.