“Miss Theddon,” said Nathan, “life is very queer at times, isn’t it—in some of its coincidences and dénouements, I mean?”
“Yes,” replied Madelaine, scarcely recognizing her own voice. She was trying to credit that this romantically garbed, erect-figured, firm-footed, steady-voiced man by her side was Nathaniel Forge. She felt rather light-headed about it. She did not note just where they were walking. She did not care. There was a sky and it was blue. There was sunshine and it flooded over them. There was a horizon, and as they walked, it moved even farther away.
“Because, Miss Theddon, this doesn’t happen to be the first time I’ve seen you, I believe, though I dare say you never knew. Some day I’d like to tell you. Not now. Please don’t ask it. But somehow I feel I know you very well, that I’ve always known you.” He laughed lightly. “After all, Massachusetts and Vermont are very close together, aren’t they?”
How could she tell him? Could she tell him? She heard herself speaking, as though she were a third person, listening to the conversation.
“And I feel that I know you too very well indeed. Though I’m not yet quite over the shock of meeting you, away off here in the heart of Asia. You—you wrote a poem once——”
He lost a step in his abrupt surprise. Then he recovered himself.
“While I was seventeen I had a period when I wrote a few rhymes, yes,” he affirmed. “Every fellow does, I fancy. Only some write them worse than others.”
“One of those poems happened into my possession. I found it in a newspaper. It—it—interested me. I kept it. I wondered who you were and—why you should have written such a poem.”
“Which poem was it? I wrote several.”
“I’ll tell you that—some day—when you tell me where you saw me before,” she answered. It was sincerely spoken, not coquetry.