I had no means of seeking an answer to these questions, because Coningsby came in and the process of being welcomed had to be gone through again. Moreover, the commonplaces which, when carried on _à deux_, might have led to something more personal remained as commonplaces and no more when tossed about _à quatre_. On our going in to dinner the same tone was maintained, and I learned nothing from any interchange of looks. There was, in fact, no interchange of looks. Miss Barry talked to her right and to her left, but rarely across the table. When it became necessary to speak a word directly to me she did it with so hasty a glance that it might easily not have been a glance at all. The burning eyes that had watched me so intently on our first meeting, and studied me with so much laughing curiosity on our second, kept themselves hidden. Since it was on them that I had reckoned to tell me what I was so eager to be sure of, I was like a man who hopes to look through a window and finds it darkened by curtains. After dinner, however, I got an opportunity. Coningsby and his wife were summoned to the nursery to discuss the manifestations of some childish ailment. Miss Barry and I being left alone before the fire, I was able to say, “Well, have you thought of it?” Some of the customary vivacity returned to her lips and eyes. She had at no time seemed unkindly—only absent and rather dreamy. She was rather dreamy still, but more on the spot mentally. “Thought of what?” “Of—of where we first met.” “Oh, that! I’m sorry to say I’ve been too busy to do any searching in my memory. But one of these days I must.” There was no mistaking the sincerity of her tone. She had not searched in her memory; she had not considered it worth while. Her interest in our meeting at the memorial had probably passed before she had driven away. I must plead guilty to feeling piqued. That she should be so much in my mind and that I should occupy so small a place in hers not only disappointed but annoyed me. I said to myself, “Oh, well, if she cares so little there is no reason why I should care more.” Aloud I made it: “Please don’t bother about it. One of these days the recollection will come back to you of its own accord.” “Yes; I dare say.” She went on without transition, “Whom did your brother marry?” I told her. “He wasn’t like everybody else,” she pursued. “I wonder—I wonder if you are?” “Wouldn’t that depend on what you mean by being like everybody else? I don’t know that I get your standard.” “Oh, men are so much alike. There’s no more difference between them than between so many beans in a bottle.” “I don’t see that. To my mind they’re all distinct from one another.” “In little ways, yes. But when it comes to the big ways—” “What are the big ways?” She weighed this, a forefinger against a cheek.