She hadn’t changed much; she was stouter and a trifle more serious, that was all. He observed that she was in mourning, wearing a black blouse and skirt somewhat like his housekeeper but dowdier and cheaper. Nevertheless, she didn’t look poor; somehow you didn’t pity her.
“Mrs. Naylor,” he repeated.
“I’m a widow,” she said, simply. He answered, in very much the same simple and friendly way—
“I’m sorry.”
Then she said, smiling again, but with a hint of melancholy:
“I’ve come to you for advice again. I look on you as an old friend, Mr. Petersen.”
“I am!” he assured her.
“I know it!”
He held out a huge hand.
“Sit down,” he said. “Miss Layne, you shall have a holiday in honour of Mrs. Naylor’s return.”