The woman looked at her husband, and he looked straight along his nose. It was a long nose, and it seemed to take him a great while to get to the end of it.
Hildegarde couldn’t wait. “Yes, Mr. Mar,” she said eagerly, “Mr. Nathaniel Mar.”
“I don’t think—” began the woman.
“Oh, please try to remember. He is very thin and tall, with bushy hair. I feel sure you’d remember him if you thought a moment. He is the kind people remember.”
Something in the trembling earnestness of a person who looked as self-possessed as Hildegarde had its effect.
“You can know people up there pretty well and never hear their names. Nome is like that. I may have seen him.”
Oh, how close it brought him to hear the dun-colored husband saying, “I may have seen him!”
“A young man?” asked the wife.
“No,” said Hildegarde, and she was shaking with excitement. “He is gray, and he—he is very lame.” This bald picture of her own drawing suddenly overcame her. “Try,”—she found herself catching at the rusty arm—“try to remember. He is my father.”
“Oh, your father,” said the woman in a different tone, and the vague man turned his pale eyes on Hildegarde as though only now fully aware of her.