It was not an English phrase; no Englishwoman would have used it.

“I was tremendously fond of him,” I answered. “I should never have thought that I could have grown so fond of any one in such a short time. He wasn’t merely fine as an artist; he was so fine as a man.”

She nodded.

“You understood him? You knew all about him? He talked to you openly, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” I said. “He used to tell me all kinds of things.”

“Then explain to me,” she cried out, and I saw that tears brimmed in her eyes, “why did he die when I came?”

“It was a coincidence,” I said lamely.