“What do you mean by—­might have been?”

“I mean that, though I don’t say I’ve ever—­loved—­any man, there was a man I might have loved, if it had been possible.”

“And why wasn’t it possible?”

“I’d rather not tell you.  It was a long time ago.  He went away.  He never came back again.”

“Did he say he’d come back again?”

She shook her head.  She tried to meet his gaze steadily, but it was like facing a search-light.

“Were you what you would call—­engaged?”

“Oh no.”  Her confusion deepened.  “There was never anything.  It was a long time ago.  I only want you to understand that if I could care for any one it would be for him.  And if I married you—­and he came back—­”

“Are you expecting him back?”

She was a long time answering the question.  She would not have answered it at all had it not been in the hope of getting rid of him.

“Yes.”

He took the declaration coolly, and went on.

“Why?  What makes you think he’ll come?”

“I have no reason.  I think he will—­that’s all.”

“Where is he now?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Hasn’t he ever written to you?”

“Never.”

“And you don’t know what’s become of him?”

“Not in the least.”

“And yet you expect him back?”

She nodded assent.

“You’re waiting for him?”

Once more she braced herself to look him in the eyes and answer boldly.

“I am.”

He leaned back in his chair and laughed, not loudly, but in good-humored derision.

“If that’s all that stands between us—­”

To her relief he said no more; though she was disappointed that the subject should be dropped in a way that made it possible to bring it up again.  As he was taking his leave she renewed the attempt to end the matter once for all.

“I know you think me foolish—­” she began.

“No, not foolish; only romantic.”

“Then, romantic.  Romance is as bad as folly when one is twenty-seven.  I confess it,” she went on, trying to smile, “only that you may understand that it’s a permanent condition which I sha’n’t get over.”

“Oh yes, you will.”

“Things happened—­long ago—­such as don’t generally happen; and so—­I’m waiting for him.  If he never comes—­then I’d rather go on—­waiting—­uselessly.”

It was hard to say, but it was said.  He laughed again—­not quite so derisively as before—­and went away.

When he had gone, she resumed her seat behind the tea-table.  She sat looking absently at the floor and musing on the words she had just spoken.  Not in all the seven or eight years since Norrie Ford went away had she acknowledged to her own heart what, within the last few minutes, she had declared aloud.  The utmost she had ever owned to herself was that she “could have loved him.”  When she refused