"Really, Mr. Drew!" cried the other, "one might almost suppose that you knew more about it than I do!"
"One almost might," he agreed, "shall I go on? Let me see, where was I? Oh, the advent of the other young person, who was also bored. He would probably be an artist of some kind, or perhaps dabble in a profession."
"A novelist?" she suggested.
He bowed his head smilingly.
"For the purposes of argument we will call him a novelist. And this young novelist may have met you perhaps, and you may have gone for long walks together."
"All along the cliff," she murmured.
"And talked Art together?"
"All about the novel that wasn't published then," she added.
"And your husband became still more neglectful."
"And the novelist still more persistent," she put in.
"And the situation developed daily and hourly until your husband"
"Came back by the midday train one Saturday," she said, resting her chin on her hand.
"And the aspiring novelist had to pack up the novel that was not then published and"
"And he had to go right away, and he never came back," she cried, suddenly starting up and walking over to the other window, where she remained standing with her back to him.
"Yes?" said Allan with a smile, "then it was nothing but an ordinary episode after all."
There was a little pause, which she occupied by throwing the blind-tassel about.
"Mr. Drew, why did you make up all that nonsense?" she said suddenly.
