"Have you been back to your rooms
since you left her?"
"Since I left her at the station? I came straight here."
"Ah, yes--you _could:_ there was no reason--" Her words passed into
a silent musing.
Thursdale moved nervously nearer. "You said you had something to
tell me?"
"Perhaps I had better let her do so. There may be a letter at your
rooms."
"A letter? What do you mean? A letter from _her?_ What has
happened?"
His paleness shook her, and she raised a hand of reassurance.
"Nothing has happened--perhaps that is just the worst of it. You
always _hated_, you know," she added incoherently, "to have things
happen: you never would let them."
"And now--?"
"Well, that was what she came here for: I supposed you had guessed.
To know if anything had happened."
"Had happened?" He gazed at her slowly. "Between you and me?" he
said with a rush of light.
The words were so much cruder than any that had ever passed between
them that the color rose to her face; but she held his startled
gaze.
"You know girls are not quite as unsophisticated as they used to be.
Are you surprised that such an idea should occur to her?"
His own color answered hers: it was the only reply that came to him.
Mrs. Vervain went on, smoothly: "I supposed it might have struck you
that there were times when we presented that appearance."
He made an impatient gesture. "A man's past is his own!"
"Perhaps--it certainly never belongs to the woman who has shared it.
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