"In February."

"In February we were at Nice," Alicia said, musingly. Then she took up
her divining-rod again. "One can imagine that she was grateful. People
of that kind--how snobbish I sound, but you know what I mean--are rather
stranded in Calcutta, aren't they? They haven't any world here;" and
with the quick glance which deprecated her timid clevernesses, she
added, "The arts conspire to be absent."

"Ah, don't misunderstand. If there was any gratitude it was all mine.
But we met as kindred, if I may vaunt myself so much. A mere theory of
life will go a long way, you know, toward establishing a claim of that
sort. And, at all events, she is good enough to treat me as if she
admitted it."

"What is her theory of life?" Alicia demanded, quickly. "I should be
glad of a new one."

Lindsay's communicativeness seemed to contract a little, as at the touch
of a finger light but cold.

"I don't think she has ever told me," he said. "No, I am sure she has
not." His reflection was, "It is her garment--and how could it fit
another woman?"

"But you have divined it--she has let you do that! You can give me your
impression."

He recognised her bright courage in venturing upon impalpabilities, but
not without a shade of embarrassment.