“No. Ella Dowling told her.”
Mrs. Palmer's laughter continued. “Now we have it!” she exclaimed. “It's a game of gossip: Arthur tells Ella, Ella tells Henrietta, and Henrietta tells——”
“Don't laugh, please, mama,” Mildred begged. “Of course Arthur didn't tell anybody. It's roundabout enough, but it's true. I know it! I hadn't quite believed it, but I knew it was true when he got so red. He looked—oh, for a second or so he looked—stricken! He thought I didn't notice it. Mama, he's been to see her almost every evening lately. They take long walks together. That's why he hasn't been here.”
Of Mrs. Palmer's laughter there was left only her indulgent smile, which she had not allowed to vanish. “Well, what of it?” she said.
“Mama!”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Palmer. “What of it?”
“But don't you see?” Mildred's well-tutored voice, though modulated and repressed even in her present emotion, nevertheless had a tendency to quaver. “It's true. Frank Dowling was going to see her one evening and he saw Arthur sitting on the stoop with her, and didn't go in. And Ella used to go to school with a girl who lives across the street from here. She told Ella——”
“Oh, I understand,” Mrs. Palmer interrupted. “Suppose he does go there. My dear, I said, 'What of it?'”
“I don't see what you mean, mama. I'm so afraid he might think we knew about it, and that you and papa said those things about her and her father on that account—as if we abused them because he goes there instead of coming here.”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Palmer rose, went to a window, and, turning there, stood with her back to it, facing her daughter and looking at her cheerfully. “Nonsense, my dear! It was perfectly clear that she was mentioned by accident, and so was her father. What an extraordinary man! If Arthur makes friends with people like that, he certainly knows better than to expect to hear favourable opinions of them. Besides, it's only a little passing thing with him.”