"Number five," the man replied. "I was to have driven her out to-day, but she's ill and can't go."
"Are you her coachman?"
"Oh, no," the man said. "Mrs. Sinclair doesn't keep a carriage, but hires pretty often from our place."
"Thank you," said Mr. Tracy; "perhaps I had better postpone my visit to another day," and, noting with admiration the shady lawns and bright gardens lurking so unexpectedly in this busy part of the town, he turned again into the street, after making sure that he could find the place again without difficulty. A dairy on the other side of the road, looking delightfully clean and cool with its green and white tiles, polished marble counters, and gleaming milk cans, invited him, and sitting down at a little table he ordered a large glass of milk and soda, and drew the girl behind the counter into a gossipy conversation.
"Yes, it's a sweetly pretty place," she said, referring to The Vale, "and nice people live there; carriage people mostly. We serve them all."
"Do you know Mrs. Sinclair?" Mr. Tracy asked. "I was calling upon her to-day, but am told she isn't well."
"I'm sorry," said the girl. "Oh, yes, I know her very well. She is so nice and civil-spoken, and always so beautifully dressed. Don't you think she's very good-looking? Not pretty, you know, but handsome and distinguished looking."
"I haven't seen her for some years," Mr. Tracy answered, "but still I daresay she hasn't changed much. Women can always remain any age they please."
The girl smiled, as in duty bound.
"I always envy Mrs. Sinclair," she said. "She has everything a woman can possibly want—except, perhaps, a husband."