lowered slightly—“You haven’t changed much, Elwyn.”
I felt her wonderful eyes searching mine and my face more closely.
“Yes, you have,” she amended, and there was a soft, exultant note in her latest tones; “I see it now. You haven’t forgotten. You haven’t forgotten for a year or a day or an hour. I told you you never could.”
I poked my straw anxiously in the crème de menthe.
“I’m sure I beg your pardon,” I said, a little uneasy at her gaze. “But that is just the trouble. I have forgotten. I’ve forgotten everything.”
She flouted my denial. She laughed deliciously at something she seemed to see in my face.
“I’ve heard of you at times,’ she went on. “You’re quite a big lawyer out West—Denver, isn’t it, or Los Angeles? Marian must be very proud of you. You knew, I suppose, that I married six months after you did. You may have seen it in the papers. The flowers alone cost two thousand dollars.”
She had mentioned fifteen years. Fifteen years is a long time.
“Would it be too late,” I asked, somewhat timorously, “to offer you congratulations?”
“Not if you dare do it,” she answered, with such fine intrepidity that I was silent, and began to crease patterns on the cloth with my thumb nail.
“Tell me one thing,” she said, leaning toward me rather
