We were sitting in the moonlight.
"Now," said Charmian, staring up at the luminous heaven, "let us
talk."
"Willingly," I answered; "let us talk of stars."
"No--let us talk of ourselves."
"As you please."
"Very well, you begin."
"Well--I am a blacksmith."
"Yes, you told me so before."
"And I make horseshoes--"
"He is a blacksmith, and makes horseshoes!" said Charmian,
nodding at the moon.
"And I live here, in this solitude, very contentedly; so that it
is only reasonable to suppose that I shall continue to live here,
and make horseshoes--though, really," I broke off, letting my
eyes wander from my companion's upturned face back to the glowing
sky, once more, "there is little I could tell you about so
commonplace a person as myself that is likely to interest you."
"No," said Charmian, "evidently not!" Here my gaze came down to
her face again so quickly that I fancied I detected the ghost of
a smile upon her lips.
"Then," said I, "by all means let us talk of something else."
"Yes," she agreed; "let us talk of the woman Charmian--Charmian
--Brown." A tress of hair had come loose, and hung low above her
brow, and in its shadow her, eyes seemed more elusive, more
mocking than ever, and, while our glances met, she put up a hand
and began to, wind this glossy tress round and round her finger.
"Well?" said she.
"Well," said I, "supposing you begin."
"But is she likely to interest you?"
"I think so--yes."
"Aren't you sure, then?"
"Quite sure--certainly."
"Then why don't you say so?"
"I thought you would take that for granted."
"A woman should take nothing for granted, sir."
"Then," said I, "supposing you begin."
"I've half a mind not to," she retorted, curling the tress of
hair again, and then, suddenly: "What do you think of Charmian
Brown?"
"I think of her as little as I can."
"Indeed, sir!"
"Indeed," said I.
"And why, pray?"
"Because," said I, knocking the ashes from my pipe, "because the
more I think about her the more incomprehensible she becomes."
"Have you known many women?"
"Very few," I confessed, "but--"