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There was also, I remembered, a certain ---- But this had nothing to do
with Dale. Neither had the tragedy of my lost Clothilde. The memories,
however, brought a wistful touch of sympathy into my voice.
"You soberly think, my dear old Dale," said I, "that I know nothing of
love and passion and the rest of the divine madness?"
"I'm sure you don't," he cried, with an impatient gesture. "If you did,
you wouldn't--"
He came to an abrupt and confused halt.
"I wouldn't--what?"
"Nothing. I forgot what I was going to say. Let us talk of something
else."
"It was on the tip of your impulsive tongue," said I cheerfully, "to
refer to my attitude towards Miss Faversham."
"I'm desperately sorry," said he, reddening. "It was unpardonable. But
how did you guess?"
I laughed and quoted the Latin tag about the ingenuous boy of the
ingenuous visage and ingenuous modesty.
"Because I don't feverishly search the postbag for a letter from Miss
Faversham you conclude I'm a bloodless automaton?"
"Please don't say any more about it, Simon," he pleaded in deep
distress.


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