She gazed at me a minute before saying: “Then—then I think it must have been—your brother. I remember now that Annette did call him Jack.” She continued, “But what did you mean when—when you said it was you?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I haven’t the remotest idea.”
“Look at me again.”
“I can’t look at you again, because I’m looking at you all the time. You’re most wonderfully like your brother.”
“I don’t think I am. I met my uncle Van Elstine in the street the other day and he didn’t know me.”
“Oh, well, strangers often see resemblances that escape members of a family. All I get by looking at you is that I see your brother. He was awfully nice. We so—we so wished he’d come back. He—he wasn’t like everybody else.”
“He’s married now.”
I wonder if I am right in thinking that a slight shadow crossed her face. There may have been, too, a forced jauntiness in her tone as she said, “Oh, is he?”
I nodded.