Page:Tales of John Oliver Hobbes.djvu/130

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"You wrote to me once before, Cynthia."

"Why do you remind me of that? It doesn't help us today. The truth of the matter is that there is really nothing trustworthy about me. I don't know my mind from one moment to the next. The one thing certain seems to be this—in some way or other I must find amusement."

"Then when you spoke to me at the Museum as you did, it was for amusement?"

"Yes—if you like. I had been dull so long, and I couldn't resist the temptation. When I reached home I thought better of it, and I wrote as I did. In the circumstances I think that was rather decent—for me. I was afraid you might take me too seriously—again. An unnecessary fear, no doubt; but give me the credit of trying to put things right. It is not often that I want to do even that."

They were both in the drawing-room at Curzon street. Cynthia was sitting in an armchair; Provence was standing by the fireplace. He looked pale and careworn—Cynthia smiling and ironical.

"I refuse to believe that letter. If you did not speak the truth at the Museum, the whole world is a lie."

"No, Godfrey, not the whole world—only me. Besides, I never said I didn't like you: I couldn't say that. But there is a difference between liking and