"Pray explain how mere opinion became knowledge," said Reva, with an assumption of mock gravity that strangely reminded me of her former self. It may have been this that prompted me to answer as I did.
"From the fact that she has changed so little, I naturally infer there was little to change for the better."
"That certainly sounds conclusive," assented Reva in the same tone. "I shall be proud to form the acquaintauce of such a paragon. But," added she, with a mischievous light in her eye that warned me I was about to be repaid in some way for the error I had committed, "if I remember rightly what you said, your own personal appearance is but slightly altered from then: from that may we justly infer that you also"—
"You may draw what inference you please," said I, laughing. But one thing I have no need to infer, but know for certain, is, that Reva Diotha and Edith Alston agree remarkably in one characteristic at least."
"What you say merely tantalizes my impatience to hear more of this Edith," said Reva, evidently enjoying her little skirmish. But would there be time? We shall soon be in sight of the house."
"No: the time is too short. Besides, I think it would be better for me to tell this story to you and your father together. Meantime, it would perhaps be as well not to refer to the matter."
Had this been premeditated by me, it would have been a most subtle stroke of strategy. It would have been impossible to devise more effectual means of causing her mind to dwell upon me. Without intending it, I had thus established a secret between me and her,—a secret that,
