She did not reply, but simply sat blinking at me with lifted chin, as if listening, but certainly not for what I might have to say. I began to feel rather at a loss.
"You were no close friend of my nephew's, Mr. Smithers?" she said presently.
"No," I answered, welcoming the cue, "and yet, do you know, Miss Seaton, he is one of the very few of my old schoolfellows I have come across in the last few years, and I suppose as one gets older one begins to value old associations...." My voice seemed to trail off into a vacuum. "I thought Miss Outram," I hastily began again, "a particularly charming girl. I hope they are both quite well."
Still the old face solemnly blinked at me in silence.
"You must find it very lonely, Miss Seaton, with Arthur away?"
"I was never lonely in my life," she said sourly. "I don't look to flesh and blood for my company. When you've got to be my age, Mr. Smithers (which God forbid), you'll find life a very different affair from what you seem to think it is now. You won't seek company then, I'll be bound. It's thrust on you." Her face edged round into the clear green light, and her eyes, as it were, groped over my vacant, disconcerted face. "I dare say, now," she said, composing her mouth, "I dare say my nephew told you a good many tarradiddles in his time. Oh, yes, a good many, eh? He was always a liar. What, now, did he say of me? Tell me, now." She leant forward as far as she could, trembling, with an ingratiating smile.
"I think he is rather superstitious," I said coldly, "but, honestly, I have a very poor memory, Miss Seaton."
"Why?" she said. "I haven't."
"The engagement hasn't been broken off, I hope."
"Well, between you and me," she said, shrinking up and with an immensely confidential grimace, "it has."