"Philip, that first one, the gentleman, had a little bit—just a little bit—the air of your friend, Mr. Caruthers. He was so muffled up, one could not tell what he was like; but somehow he reminded me of Mr. Caruthers."
"I thought Tom was your friend?"
"Friend? No. He was an acquain'tance; he was never my friend, I think."
"Then his name raises no tender associations in your mind?"
"Why, no!" said Lois, with a gay little laugh. "No, indeed. But I liked him very well at one time; and I—think—he liked me."
"Poor Tom!"
"Why do you say that?" Lois asked merrily. "He is not poor; he has married a Dulcimer. I never can hear her name without thinking of Nebuchadnezzar's image! He has forgotten me long ago."
"I see you have forgotten him," said Dillwyn, bending down till his face was very near Lois's.
"How should I not? But I did like him at one time, quite well. I suppose I was flattered by his attentions, which I think were rather marked. And you know, at that time I did not know you."
Lois's voice fell a little; the last sentence being given with a delicate, sweet reserve, which spoke much more than effusion. Philip's answer was mute.