“Oh!” said Farrar.
“Do you remember the night she came,” I asked, “and we sat with her on the Florentine porch, and Charles Wrexell recognized her and came up?”
“Yes,” he replied with awakened interest, “and I meant to ask you about that.”
“Miss Thorn had met him in the East. And I gathered from what she told me that he has followed her out here.”
“Shouldn't wonder,” said Farrar. “Don't much blame him, do you? Is that what troubles you?” he asked, in surprise.
“Not precisely,” I answered vaguely; “but from what she has said then and since, she made it pretty clear that she hadn't any use for him; saw through him, you know.”
“Pity her if she didn't. But what did she say?”
I repeated the conversations I had had with Miss Thorn, without revealing Mr. Allen's identity with the celebrated author.
“That is rather severe,” he assented.
“He decamped for Mohair, as you know, and since that time she has gone back on every word of it. She is with him morning and evening, and, to crown all, stood up for him through thick and thin to-day, and praised him. What do you think of that?”