Her answer was icy, even for an "Indeed?"—quite in her best Lansdale manner.
"Yes, 'indeed!'" I retorted somewhat rudely, "but never mind—it's not of the least consequence. What I meant to say was this—about those pictures of people, you remember."
"I remember perfectly, and I've concluded that it's all nonsense—all of it, you understand."
"That's queer—so have I." Had I been a third person and an observer, I would doubtless have sworn that Miss Lansdale was more surprised than pleased by this remark of mine.
"I haven't had your picture at all," I went on; "it was a picture of some one else, and I hadn't thought to look at it for a long time—had forgotten it utterly, in fact. That's how I came to think I knew your face before I knew you."
"I told you it was nonsense!" and she snipped off a rose with a kind of miniature brusqueness.
"But you shall see that I had some reason. If you find time to-day, step into my library and look at the picture. It's on the mantel, and the door is open. It may be some one you know, though I doubt even that."
With this I brazenly snatched a pink rose from those within her arm.
"You see Fatty Budlow is coming on," I remarked of this bit of boldness.
"Let him come—he shan't find me in the way." This with an effort to seem significant.
