thought, not until the end. Then, then at the last, I held her eyes, her thoughts, her bewildered questioning eyes. Bewildered or grateful? Shall I ever know ? Will you tell me, I wonder, hear it from her, reassure me…" He stopped. "I suppose you think I am mad?"
"I have never thought you quite sane. But," I added consolingly, "that is better than being merely stupid, like most doctors. So you regard me," I could not help my tone being bitter, "as a clairvoyante, expectantly…"
"Does any man ever care for a woman except expectantly, or retrospectively?"
"How should I know?" He sat down by my side.
"No one should know better. Tell me more about yourself, I have only heard from Mrs. Lovegrove."
"She told you, I suppose, that I had a great and growing reputation, had faithful lovers sighing for me, that I was thirty-eight…"
"She told me a great deal more than that."
"I have no doubt. Well! in the first place I am not thirty-eight, but forty-two. My books sell, but the literary papers ignore them. I make enough for myself and Dennis."
"Denis?" His tone was surprised.
"Ella never mentioned Dennis to you?"
"No."
