Mrs. Fawcette had found a seat on a sofa while we were talking, and I sat down beside her without an invitation.
“Oh, yes, thank you, I enjoyed myself,” she answered a little sharply.
“How extraordinary,” I answered; “I thought that faculty was—dead, in most of us.”
She turned and stared at me, suspiciously. “Well, it isn’t dead in me, at all events!” she snapped; “although your remarks might imply that you think it ought to be!”
I was secretly delighted to find that she had so quick a temper. For I hoped that reaction might loosen her tongue, if there was anything to learn from her.
I sat up as though stung. “My dear lady, I had no thought of implying any such thing. If my words sounded discourteous I beg that you will pardon them. To tell you the truth, you may remember that I suffered a terrible loss some months ago, and I’m afraid that that has made me self-centered as well as costing me my own capacity for enjoyment. You remember?”
It seemed to me that my companion started slightly, and for an instant my heart stood still with a sudden fierce hope. But she answered smoothly enough:
“You poor man, of course I remember it. But surely you found your sister again. I have been away, you see, and——”
I shook my head. “No, I never found her—and now I am trying to forget.”
I glanced at my companion, but she was looking down at her hands. “You have stopped trying to find her?” she inquired, without looking up.