“It must be nice to be rich,” I said idly, as I turned a page of my book. Then I added almost before I realized what I was saying, “The other lady doesn’t look as if she had so much money.”
Her face turned paler if that were possible, and for a minute I thought she was going to faint. “The other lady?”
“I mean the one who came down late to dinner—the one in the grey dress. She wore no jewels, and her dress wasn’t low in the neck.”
“Then you saw her?” There was a curious flicker in her face as if her pallor came and went. “We were at the table when she came in. Has Mr. Vanderbridge a secretary who lives in the house?”
“No, he hasn’t a secretary except at his office. When he wants one at the house, he telephones to his office.”
“I wondered why she came, for she didn’t eat any dinner, and nobody spoke to her—not even Mr. Vanderbridge.”
“Oh, he never speaks to her. Thank God, it hasn’t come to that yet.”
“Then why does she come? It must be dreadful to be treated like that, and before the servants, too. Does she come often?”
“There are months and months when she doesn’t. I can always tell by the way Mrs. Vanderbridge picks up. You wouldn’t know her, she is so full of life—the very picture of happiness. Then one evening she—the Other One, I mean—comes back again, just as she did to-night, just as she did last summer, and it all begins over from the beginning.”
“But can’t they keep her out—the Other One? Why do they let her in?”