“Perhaps he didn't know she wrote it.”
“Oh, perhaps lots of things! But I am anxious to learn what Mrs. Cunningham tells Miss Lloyd.”
“Let us go over to the Crawford house, and tell Miss Lloyd about it.”
“Not this morning; I've another engagement. And besides, the little lady won't get around so soon.”
“Why a little lady?” I asked, smiling.
“Oh, the whole tone of the letter seems to imply a little yellow-haired butterfly of a woman.”
“Just the reverse of Florence Lloyd,” I said musingly.
“Yes; no one could imagine Miss Lloyd writing a letter like that. There's lots of personality in a woman's letter. Much more than in a man's.”
Parmalee went away, and prompted by his suggestions, I studied the letter I had just received. It was merely an idle fancy, for if Mrs. Cunningham was going to tell Miss Lloyd her story, it made little difference to me what might be her stature or the color of her hair. But, probably because of Parmalee's suggestion, I pictured her to myself as a pretty young woman with that air of half innocence and half ignorance which so well becomes the plump blonde type.
The broad veranda of the Sedgwick Arms was a pleasant place to sit, and I had mused there for some time, when Mr. Carstairs came out to tell me that I was asked for on the telephone. The call proved to be from Florence Lloyd asking me to come to her at once.