Alban was silent a little while and then he asked her: "Do you know much about him, Anna? Did you ever meet his people or anything?"
She looked at him sharply.
"He is the son of Sir John Forrest, who died in India. His brother was lost at sea. What made you ask me?"
He laughed as though it had not been meant.
"You say that he doesn't tell the truth. Suppose it were so about himself. He might be somebody else--not altogether the person he pretends to be. Would it matter if he were? I don't think so, Anna--I would much rather know something about a man himself than about his name."
She sat up in the punt and rested her chin upon the knuckles of her shapely hands. This kind of talk was little to her liking. She had often doubted Willy Forrest, but had never questioned his title to the name he bore.
"Have they ever told you anything about us, Alban?" she continued, "did you ever hear any stories which I should not hear?"
"Only from Captain Forrest himself; he told me that he was engaged to you. That was when I went to the Savoy Hotel."
"All those weeks ago. And you never mentioned it?"
"Was it any business of mine? What right had I to speak to you about it?"
She flushed deeply.
"A secret for a secret," she said. "When you first came to Hampstead, I thought that you liked me a little Alban. Now, I know that you do not. Suppose there were a reason why I let Willy Forrest say that he was engaged to me. Suppose some one else had been unkind when I wished him to be very kind to me. Would you understand then?"
This was in the best spirit of the coquette and yet a great earnestness lay behind it. Posing in that romantic light, the thick red lips pouting, the black eyes shining as with the clear flame of a soul awakened, the head erect as that of a deer which has heard a sound afar, this passionate little actress, half Pole, half Jewess, might well have set a man's heart beating and brought him, suppliant, to her feet. To Alban there returned for a brief instant all that spirit of homage and of awe with which he had first beheld her on the balcony of the house in St. James' Square. The cynic in him laid down his robe and stood before her in the garb of youth spellbound and fascinated. He dared to say to himself, she loves me--it is to me that these words are spoken.