“Yes—a good sort, isn't she? She used to keep me posted up in all kinds of things, as I say—you amongst them. At last I built up a little romance about you!”
“What a crash it must have come down with!”
“I am not so sure of that. Time will show. It was just after one of her letters that I read the story of 'Marjorie Daw,' which some good people sent me down with a package of books from Cairo. Do you know it?”
“I have read it, but forgotten it,” replied Clytie.
Now, she remembered it very well. The words had come almost involuntarily. She was a little angry with herself. But it was pleasant to lean back in the armchair, amidst the babel of voices and heavy cloud of cigarette smoke, and be talked to thus pleasantly.
“It's a pretty little tale,” said Thornton. “A man writes letters to amuse a sick friend—broken leg, I think—and describes an imaginary young lady living opposite him. And the broken-legged man falls violently in love with this Marjorie Daw and starts off to see her as soon as he is well—and is moved to much wrath when he finds out the truth. Well, I am afraid I must confess that I made a kind of Marjorie Daw out of you—although I haven't exactly come over in search of you. So you see that we are old acquaintances—on one side, at least.”
“Caroline must have been saying very foolish things about me,” said Clytie. “I remember Marjorie Daw now. I am not the least bit like her.”
“I never said you were,” he returned, looking at her boldly, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. “I did not think so then, either. And since I am in for a kind of confession, I may as well say it did not occur to me that I should ever meet you. Now that we have met—under my cousin's wing, so to speak—I hope we shall make friends.”
“You speak as if we had quarrelled,” said Clytie.
“Well, I thought perhaps you might have been a little vexed at my confession. Are you?”