Nancy Fazackerly told me the fact when she gave me the account of the party. And I have wondered so often what took place in the course of that short walk--the first time that those two people were ever alone together, after the evening of music and talk and laughter--that I have come to evolve a sort of imaginary conversation. It is based, like almost all my conception of Mrs. Harter’s personality, on conjecture, on the judgments of Mary Ambrey, who alone, of all those who watched the events of that summer, combined clear vision with pitifulness--and on what I saw of Bill Patch. I don’t know--no one ever will know--what passed between them as they went up the still, moonlit street and across the little open square of the market place, their footsteps sounding very clearly in the absolute quiet of the night-time. But I have sometimes fancied that I could reconstruct the lines of that conversation--and, for what it is worth, I shall put down what they may have said, as though I knew that they really did say it. Certainly, Diamond Harter dropped her guard that night. I am sure of that. Perhaps it was something as follows--but perhaps not. “Were you long in the East?” “Nearly five years. This is the first time I’ve been home. Cross Loman hasn’t changed much.” “You must be glad of that, I should think.” “Why?” said Mrs. Harter sharply. “I think it’s a horrid little country town, and the people in it mostly snobs.” “Why do you think that? I’ve found them all so kind and friendly.” “You! Yes. That’s different. But you don’t suppose I should have been asked to-night if I hadn’t happened to sing at the concert the other day. That Mrs. Fazackerly is a kind little soul, and everyone knows she’s had a hell of a time. But I’ve not any use for the Ambreys--especially that girl.” “I’m sorry you feel like that.” “I know you all thought I was going to spoil the evening, at first. I couldn’t help it.” Her voice softened a little in the darkness. “I felt such a fish out of water.” “Sometimes I’ve felt like that myself. I used to when I was in the Army, very often. But one gets over it. People are awfully kind, really.” “Martyn Ambrey is all right, and Mrs. Ambrey, that girl’s mother. Do you know her?” “I’ve met her.” “They weren’t living here when I was at home. As for the high and mighty Lady Flower, you saw what she was like that night at the concert.” “Was she especially--anything?” Mrs. Harter gave a short laugh. “I don’t know why I’m giving myself away like this, I’m sure. Only you somehow got things going to-night, just when I was cursing myself for having been such a fool as to come.” “I’m glad you did come, and I hope you’ll come to the Ambreys.” He spoke simply and deliberately, and her reply was equally devoid of any hint of conventional intention. “Why?” “Because you sound so lonely,” said Captain Patch. “I expect you’d like people better if you saw them more often.” “One doesn’t generally,” she said with an odd laugh.