Again she looked at him.
"Were you sorry to leave the club?" she asked.
"I was quite ready to leave," he answered inattentively.
"It must have been pleasant to you, though, to—to be among the sort of people again that you—you used to know. Miss Furden"—she mentioned one of the girls who had seemed most interested in him, the sister of the boy whose place he had taken in the polo practice—"is considered a very attractive person, Mr. Eaton. I have heard it said that a man—any man—not to be attracted by her must be forearmed against her by thought—or memory of some other woman whom he holds dear."
"She seemed very pleasant," he answered automatically.
"Only pleasant? You were forearmed, then," she said.
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand."
The mechanicalness of his answer reassured her. "I mean, Mr. Eaton,"—she forced her tone to be light,—"Miss Furden was not as attractive to you as she might have been, because there has been some other woman in your life—whose memory—or—or the expectation of seeing whom again—protected you."
"Has been? Oh, you mean before."
"Yes; of course," she answered hastily.