ous friend didn't vanish; she tapped on the pane and motioned me to come in. She was in a queer little apartment, one of the many reception-rooms of which the ground-floor at Tranton consisted; it was known as the Indian room and had a decoration vaguely Oriental—bamboo lounges, lacquered screens, lanterns with long fringes and strange idols in cabinets, objects not held to conduce to sociability. The place was little used, and when I went round to her we had it to ourselves. As soon as I entered she said to me: "Please tell me this; are you in love with my daughter?"
I hesitated a moment. "Before I answer your question will you kindly tell me what gives you the idea? I don't consider that I have been very forward."
Mrs. Marden, contradicting me with her beautiful anxious eyes, gave me no satisfaction on the point I mentioned; she only went on strenuously:
"Did you say nothing to her on the way to church?"
"What makes you think I said anything?"
"The fact that you saw him."
"Saw whom, dear Mrs. Marden?"
"Oh, you know," she answered, gravely, even a little reproachfully, as if I were trying to humiliate her by making her phrase the unphraseable.
"Do you mean the gentleman who formed the subject of your strange statement in church—the one who came into the pew?"
"You saw him, you saw him!" Mrs. Marden panted, with a strange mixture of dismay and relief.
"Of course I saw him; and so did you."
"It didn't follow. Did you feel it to be inevitable?"
I was puzzled again. "Inevitable?"
"That you should see him?"
"Certainly, since I'm not blind."