"If I said it," she continued slowly, as if searching for a plausible
excuse, and then giving it up, "I suppose I was trying to impress you.
You mustn't expect me to be consistent _all_ the time."
"I'll never expect you to be again," I said, now irritated by her
contrariness. I suppose I showed it in my tone.
She came right over to me, and took my hand, sitting on the arm of my
chair. "Oh, Chet," she pleaded, "don't mind me. I'm a fool, and I know
it. I know you don't approve of me any more, but I can't stand it to
have you cross with me. I can't bluff you any longer, so I might as
well tell you. The fact is, my memory is bad. It's really a disease.
Amnesia is the name of it. Now do you see? It isn't my fault, is it?
I can't depend upon myself for anything. Sometimes I absolutely forget
all about a thing that happened only yesterday. I have great blank
spaces in my life when I don't know what has happened. It's perfectly
awful! Did you ever hear of any one like that?"
"Do you really mean to tell me that you forget what you said to me about
Browning?" I asked her, taking her hand, for I was filled with a sudden
pity.
"Yes, Chet, sure I do!" She rolled my seal ring between her fingers as
she looked down.
"And about preferring 'Joy' to 'Edna', too?"
"Oh, did I say that, too? Yes, I forget."
"It doesn't seem possible!" I exclaimed. Then, tentatively, almost
fearfully, for it seemed the crux: "And about 'the island'?" I held my
breath.
"What 'island'?"
I dropped her hand. It was too much for me. "Oh, never mind." I
sighed. "I'm very sorry. But I don't quite see, yet. Has this
anything to do with your refusal to play for me?"
She rose, now, and tossed her head back, with that shake I had noticed
before. The gesture seemed to be the only link between her two moods,
and, for a moment, she seemed to be again the melancholy princess. But
the phase passed instantly, and she grew petulant.
"I don't know how to play well enough. It bores me."