“Evidently,” she said. “But how does one know?”
“How do you know that Evelyn didn’t tell me?” he parried. He felt it was a master stroke. “You don’t seem to have exhausted the possibilities.”
“No, of course. She might have,” admitted the mysterious voice. There was the tiniest silence. “But I don’t think she did. Of course, I don’t know.”
“No, of course,” Calderon politely agreed. “Is she quite well?”
“Oh!” cried the voice, shaking with amusement. “Don’t you know that? Hasn’t she told you that? It’s too bad to keep it from you!”
“What!” Calderon moved nearer. “She’s not ill!”
“No. I meant that she was well.”
“She tells me very little about herself—very little,” he explained ingeniously. “You’ll have noticed that she doesn’t think of herself at all.”
A dryness came into the tone of his companion.
“You still idealize her, then?” Calderon heard.