There was also, I remembered, a certain —— But this had nothing to do with Dale. Neither had the tragedy of my lost Clothilde. The memories, however, brought a wistful touch of sympathy into my voice.
“You soberly think, my dear old Dale,” said I, “that I know nothing of love and passion and the rest of the divine madness?”
“I'm sure you don't,” he cried, with an impatient gesture. “If you did, you wouldn't—”
He came to an abrupt and confused halt.
“I wouldn't—what?”
“Nothing. I forgot what I was going to say. Let us talk of something else.”
“It was on the tip of your impulsive tongue,” said I cheerfully, “to refer to my attitude towards Miss Faversham.”
“I'm desperately sorry,” said he, reddening. “It was unpardonable. But how did you guess?”
I laughed and quoted the Latin tag about the ingenuous boy of the ingenuous visage and ingenuous modesty.
“Because I don't feverishly search the postbag for a letter from Miss Faversham you conclude I'm a bloodless automaton?”