She was startled.
“That is my name,” she said; “but—”
“But I’m afraid you’re not the right one—not Mrs. Terhune’s Mildred.”
“Oh, Mrs. Terhune!” cried the girl, very much distressed. “Did she send you?”
“Yes,” he replied, rather absent-mindedly, because he was trying to reconcile his imaginary portrait of the jilted spinster with the reality before him. He was impressed, deeply impressed, by this dignified and serious girl, because he was not very dignified or serious himself, but careless and light-hearted and sometimes a little impertinent. “Then,” he added politely, “if you are the right one, won’t you come and speak to Mrs. Terhune? She’s waiting in the car. She’s very anxious to see you.”
Mildred turned. Mrs. Terhune had now got out of the car, and was standing beside it. At that distance she seemed a small and shapeless creature, with veil and scarf fluttering, and her hand waving in earnest welcome.
“Oh, the dear thing!” said Mildred.
Her tone was so odd that Dacier looked quickly at her, and saw her gray eyes filled with tears. Why tears at the sight of Aunt Kate?
“I’m sorry,” she went on. “I can’t see her just now. If you’ll please tell her”—Mildred turned away her face—“please tell her I’ll write. Please tell her I’m just as fond of her. Thank you! Good-by!”
After a few steps she stopped again, because Dacier was still beside her.