"I venture to allude to him because I've an idea I used to know him," I
went on.
"Oh I see." And beyond this remark she appeared to take no interest; she
left it to me to make any connexion.
"That is if it's the same one." It struck me as feeble to say nothing
more; so I added "My Mr. Porterfield was called David."
"Well, so is ours." "Ours" affected me as clever.
"I suppose I shall see him again if he's to meet you at Liverpool," I
continued.
"Well, it will be bad if he doesn't."
It was too soon for me to have the idea that it would be bad if he did:
that only came later. So I remarked that, not having seen him for so
many years, it was very possible I shouldn't know him.
"Well, I've not seen him for a considerable time, but I expect I shall
know him all the same."
"Oh with you it's different," I returned with harmlessly bright
significance. "Hasn't he been back since those days?"
"I don't know," she sturdily professed, "what days you mean."
"When I knew him in Paris--ages ago. He was a pupil of the Ecole des
Beaux Arts. He was studying architecture."
"Well, he's studying it still," said Grace Mavis.
"Hasn't he learned it yet?"
"I don't know what he has learned. I shall see." Then she added for the
benefit of my perhaps undue levity: "Architecture's very difficult and
he's tremendously thorough.
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