That was nothing.

No, it was nothing that he had, for a time, followed lovesick in her train--she never doubted that he had had that sickness, although he had not spoken of it--all that had been notable in the acquaintance was that she, who at that time had played with the higher aims and impulses of life, had thought, in her youthful arrogance, that she discerned in this man something higher and finer than she saw in other men.

She had been pleased to make something of a friend of him, condescending to advise and encourage him, pronouncing upon his desire to seek a wider field in a new country, and calling it good.

Later, when he was gone, and life for her had grown more quiet for lack of circumstances to feed excitement, she had wondered sometimes if this man had recovered as perfectly from that love-sickness as others had done.
That was all--absolutely all.

Her life had lately come again into indirect relations with him through circumstances over which neither he nor she had had any control; and now, when she was about to see him, he had taken upon him to write and pick up the thread of personal friendship again and remind her of the past.
In what mood had he written this reminder?
Sophia Rexford would surely not have been a woman of the world if she had not asked herself this question.