At last, unexpectedly, she appeared
to give me my chance. Irrelevantly, abruptly she broke out: "Didn't you
tell me you knew Mr. Porterfield?"
"Dear me, yes--I used to see him. I've often wanted to speak to you of
him."
She turned her face on me and in the deepened evening I imagined her more
pale. "What good would that do?"
"Why it would be a pleasure," I replied rather foolishly.
"Do you mean for you?"
"Well, yes--call it that," I smiled.
"Did you know him so well?"
My smile became a laugh and I lost a little my confidence. "You're not
easy to make speeches to."
"I hate speeches!" The words came from her lips with a force that
surprised me; they were loud and hard. But before I had time to wonder
she went on a little differently. "Shall you know him when you see him?"
"Perfectly, I think." Her manner was so strange that I had to notice it
in some way, and I judged the best way was jocularly; so I added: "Shan't
you?"
"Oh perhaps you'll point him out!" And she walked quickly away. As I
looked after her there came to me a perverse, rather a provoking
consciousness of having during the previous days, and especially in
speaking to Jasper Nettlepoint, interfered with her situation in some
degree to her loss. There was an odd pang for me in seeing her move
about alone; I felt somehow responsible for it and asked myself why I
couldn't have kept my hands off.
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