"Was that Mr. Hartshorn?" I asked, trying to keep the shake out of my voice.
"Yes."
"Mr. H-Hartshorn," I repeated stupidly.
"Yes. He came to see me about the Downer place," nodded Father. "He wants to rent it for next year."
"To rent it—the Downer place!" (The Downer place was no rose-embowered cottage far from the madding crowd! Why, it was big, and brick, and right next to the hotel! I didn't want to live there.)
"Yes—for his wife and family. He's going to bring them back with him next year," explained Father.
"His wife and family!" I can imagine about how I gasped out those four words.
"Yes. He has five children, I believe, and—"
But I had fled to my room.
After all, my recovery was rapid. I was in love with love, you see; not with Mr. Harold Hartshorn. Besides, the next year I went to college. And it was while I was at college that I met Jerry.