At that she uttered a monosyllable of doubting laughter. "I wonder why you say that."
"Because it's so."
"No. It's because you're too kind, or too conscientious, or too embarrassed—anyhow too something—to tell me." She leaned forward, elbows on knees and chin in hands, in the reflective attitude she knew how to make graceful. "I have a feeling that you're not going to tell me," she said, slowly. "Yes—even that you're never going to tell me. I wonder—I wonder———"
"Yes? What do you wonder?"
"I was just thinking—I wonder if they haven't done it, after all."
"I don't understand."
"I wonder," she went on, still slowly, and in a voice of reflection, "I wonder who has been talking about me to you, after all? Isn't that it?"
"Not at———" he began, but checked himself and substituted another form of denial. "Nothing is it."
"Are you sure?"
"Why, yes."
"How curious!" she said.
"Why?"
