She started.
“Why, it's only a little more than a week,” she said.
“Does it seem longer than that to you?”
“Yes,” admitted Honora, colouring; “I suppose it's because we've been staying in the same house.”
“It seems to me,” said Mr. Spence, “that I have known you always.”
Honora sat very still. It passed through her brain, without comment, that there was a certain haunting familiarity about this remark; some other voice, in some other place, had spoken it, and in very much the same tone.
“You're the kind of girl I admire,” he declared. “I've been watching you—more than you have any idea of. You're adaptable. Put you down any place, and you take hold. For instance, it's a marvellous thing to me how you've handled all the curiosities up there this week.”
“Oh, I like people,” said Honora, “they interest me.” And she laughed a little, nervously. She was aware that Mr. Spence was making love, in his own manner: the New fork manner, undoubtedly; though what he said was changed by the new vibrations in his voice. He was making love, too, with a characteristic lack of apology and with assurance. She stole a glance at him, and beheld the image of a dominating man of affairs. He did not, it is true, evoke in her that extreme sensation which has been called a thrill. She had read somewhere that women were always expecting thrills, and never got them. Nevertheless, she had not realized how close a bond of sympathy had grown between them until this sudden announcement of his going back to New York. In a little while she too would be leaving for St. Louis. The probability that she would never see him again seemed graver than she would have believed.
“Will you miss me a little?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” she said breathlessly, “and I shall be curious to know how your—your enterprise succeeds.”