"Why, is this your salon?" asked Nick, smiling.
"Why are you always talking of that? It's an invention of your own."
"But isn't it the idea you care most about?"
Suddenly, nervously, Mrs. Dallow put up her parasol and sat under it, as if she were not quite sensible of what she was doing. "How much you know me! I don't care about anything—that you will ever guess."
Nick Dormer wandered about the room, looking at various things it contained—the odd volumes on the tables, the bits of quaint china on the shelves. "They keep it very well; you've got charming things."
"They're supposed to come over every day and look after them."
"They must come over in force."
"Oh, no one knows."
"It's spick and span. How well you have everything done!"
"I think you've some reason to say so," said Mrs. Dallow. Her parasol was down and she was again rolling it tight.
"But you're right about my not knowing you. Why were you so ready to do so much for me?"
He stopped in front of her and she looked up at him. Her eyes rested on his a minute; then she broke out: "Why do you hate me so?"
"Was it because you like me personally?" Nick asked. "You may think that an odd, or even an odious question; but isn't it natural, my wanting to know?"
"Oh, if you don't know!" Mrs. Dallow exclaimed.
