nothing to hinder me from going to Sweden,
Switzerland, or Spain; and when that's the case you're indifferent about
going anywhere." She waited a few seconds before saying, "You know about
me, don't you?"

"Rather," he said, promptly. "I've known that all along."

The reply was so downright that she was sorry she had raised the
subject. He seemed to imply that as far as he was concerned the
peculiarities in her situation were of no importance. As she was obliged
to say something, she could only express a measure of relief.

"I'm glad of that. I hoped Miss Partridge would tell you."

He startled her by saying, with the bluntness that was curiously, but
characteristically, at variance with the hesitations of his general
manner:

"You could get married again, couldn't you?"

"Oh no." She blushed helplessly.

"Oh, but you could."

She struggled to keep to the ground of mere discussion. "I could
legally; but I never should."

"Why?"

"Oh, for a lot of reasons I can't talk about."

"Then what did you do it for?"

She managed a smile, even if it was a forced and feeble one. She
understood what he meant by "it."

"I don't have to explain that, do I?"

"No, I suppose not." She hoped he was going to drop the subject, when he
lifted his head to look at her with his rather pathetic blue eyes, "Oh,
but I say, you're not serious in thinking you wouldn't, are you?"

"Perfectly serious. I should never look on the matter as admitting
discussion."

"Oh, but it does, you know."

"Not for me."

"Well, it might not for you, and yet might for--for other people."

She still forced an unsteady smile. "That's something I don't have to
worry about, at any rate. I've given up thinking of other people's
opinions."

"I don't mean other people in general--only in particular."

"I don't know any other people--in particular."

"Yes, you do. You know me."

"I only know you--like that." She snapped her fingers so as to give him
an idea of the entirely transitory nature of their acquaintance.

"That isn't the way I know you."

"Oh, you don't know me at all. You couldn't. You're too young. I belong
to another generation in point of time, and to ages ago in the matter of
experience."

"How old _are_ you?"

She told him.

"You're eighteen months older than I; but that's nothing. My mother was
four _years_ older than my father--nearer five. That sort of thing often
runs in families."

She sprang up. "There's Chippie