“So we're old acquaintances, and I didn't know it. That was nearly eighteen years ago. Isn't it strange that after so long we should meet again only last week?”
Jeff felt the blood creep into his face. “We met once before, Miss Frome.”
“Oh, on the street. I meant to speak.”
“So did I.”
“When?”
With his eyes meeting hers steadily Jeff told her of the time she had found him in the bushes and mistaken him for a sick man. He could see that he had struck her dumb. She looked at him and looked away again.
“Why do you tell me this?” she asked at last in a low voice.
“It's only fair you should know the truth about me.”
They tramped the circuit once more. Neither of them spoke. The trumpeter's bugle call to breakfast rang out.
At the bow she stopped and looked down at the waters they were furrowing. It was a long time before she raised her head and met his eyes. The color had whipped into her cheeks, but she put her question steadily.