“No—no,” he said hastily. “I was startled by a coincidence. She’s a nice woman, nice in every way. But—did she ask you to call?”
“No—I asked her. But she was very friendly, and when I kissed her in the dressing-room she kissed me, and—she had such a queer, sad expression. I thought perhaps she had a sister like me who had died.”
“Perhaps she had.” Stanhope looked pensively at his daughter. To himself he said: “Yes, probably a twin sister—the herself of a few years ago.”
“And I’m going to see her next Saturday,” continued his daughter. “I’m sure Mrs. Wayland will take me.”
“To see whom?” said Mrs. Stanhope, coming into the room.
Stanhope rose and drew out a chair for her. “We were talking of a Miss Bromfield whom Evelyn met at the Waylands’ last night. You may remember—she came here one afternoon for the Democrat—about the church’s work.”
“I remember; she looked at me quite insolently, exactly as if I were an intruding servant. What was she doing at Wayland’s? I’m surprised at them. But why is Evelyn talking of going to see her? I’m astonished at you, Evelyn.”
Evelyn and her father looked steadily at the table. Finally Evelyn spoke: “Oh, but you are quite mistaken, mother dear. She was a lady, really she was.”
“Impossible,” said Mrs. Stanhope. “She is a working-girl. No doubt she’s a poor relation of the Waylands.”
Stanhope rose, walked to the window, and stood staring into the gardens. The veins in his forehead were swollen. And he seemed less the minister than ever, and more the incarnation of some vast, inchoate force, just now a force of dark fury. Gradually he whipped his temper down until he was standing over it, pale but in control.