“I forget,” said I. “I only remember you presenting me with that hideous thing hanging in my passage, which you called a dulcimer.”
“Gage d’amour?” smiled Judith.
Pasquale laughed and twirled his swaggering moustache.
“I did get it from a damsel, and that is why I called it a dulcimer, but she didn’t sing of Mount Abora. I wish I could remember the year.”
“I think it was in 1894,” said Judith quietly.
Pasquale, who had been completely unaware of Judith’s existence until half an hour before, could not repress a stare of polite surprise.
“I believe you are right. In fact, you are. But how can you tell?”
“Through the kindness of Sir Marcus,” replied Judith graciously, “you are a very old acquaintance. I could write you off-hand a nice little obituary notice with all the adventures—well, I will not say complete—but with all the dates accurate, I assure you. I have a head for that sort of thing.”
“Yes,” I cried, desiring to turn the conversation. “Don’t tell Mrs. Mainwaring anything you wish forgotten. Facts are her passion. She writes wonderful articles full of figures that make your head spin, and publishes them in the popular magazines over the signature of Willoughby the statistician. Allow me to present to you a statistical ghost.”
But Pasquale’s subtle Italian brain was paying but half attention to me. I could read his inferences from Judith’s observations, and I could tell what she wanted him to infer. I seem to have worn my sensory system outside instead of inside my skin this evening.