"Cave," said Mrs. Despard absently; "Mrs. Edward Cave."
The man went into the shop. Presently he returned.
"She don't live here," he said; "she only calls here for letters."
Mrs. Despard assured herself of this in a brief interview with a frowsy woman across a glass-topped show-box of silk-embroidered cigar-cases.
"The young person calls every day, mum," she said; "quite a respectable young person, mum, I should say—if she was after your situation."
"Thank you," said Mrs. Despard mechanically, yet with her own smile—the smile that still stamps her in the frowsy woman's memory as "that pleasant-spoken lady."
She paused a moment on the dirty pavement, and then gave the cabman the address of the mother and sister, the address of the little house—small, but very convenient—and with a garden—such a lovely old garden—and so unusual in the middle of a town.
The cab stopped at a large, sparkling, plate-glassy shop—a very high-class fruiterer's and greengrocer's.
The name on the elaborately gilded facia was, beyond any doubt, Eden—Frederick Eden.
Mrs. Despard got out and walked into the shop. To this hour the scent of Tangerine oranges brings to her a strange, sick, helpless feeling of disillusionment.