Mrs. Willers had been relieved to find there was certainly no man influencing Miss Moreau’s decision. For unless it was Essex, it could be no one. Mrs. Willers knew the paucity of Mariposa’s social circle. That Essex had asked the girl to marry him and been refused was astonishing. The rejection was only a little more surprising than the offer. For a man like Essex to want to marry a penniless orphan was only exceeded in singularity by a girl like Mariposa refusing a man of Essex’s indisputable attractions. But there was always something to be thankful for in the darkest situation, and Mariposa undoubtedly had no intention of marrying him. Providence was guiding her, at least, in that respect.
It was still early when Mrs. Willers approached The Trumpet office. The sky was leaden and hung with low clouds. As she drew near the door the first few drops of rain fell, spotting the sidewalk here and there as though they were slowly and reluctantly wrung from the swollen heavens. It would be a storm, she thought, as she turned into the doorway and began the ascent of the dark stairs with the lanterns on the landings. In her own cubby-hole she answered Mrs. Shackleton’s letter, and then passed along the passageway to the sanctum of the proprietor, who was still in his office.
Win, in his father’s swivel chair, looked very small and insignificant. The wide window behind him let a flood of pale light over his bullet-shaped head with its thatch of limp, blond hair, and his thin shoulders bowed over the desk. His eyes narrowed behind his glasses as he looked up in answer to Mrs. Willers’ knock, and then, when he saw who it was, he smiled, for Win liked Mrs. Willers.
She handed him the letter with the request that he give it to his mother that evening, and sat down in the chair beside him, facing the long white panes of the window, which the rain was beginning to lash.
“My mother and you seem to be having a lively correspondence,” said Win, who had brought down Mrs. Shackleton’s letter some days before.
“Yes, we’ve got an untractable young lady on our hands, and it’s a large order.”
“Miss Moreau?” said the proprietor of The Trumpet. “My mother told me. She’s very independent, isn’t she?”
“She’s a strange girl. You can tell your mother, as I’ve told her in this letter, that I don’t understand her at all. She’s got some idea in her head, but I can’t make it out.”
“Mightn’t a girl just be independent?” said the young man, putting up a long, thin hand to press his glasses against his nose with a first and second finger. “Just independent, and nothing else?”
“There’s no knowing what a girl mightn’t be, Mr. Shackleton,” Mrs. Willers responded gloomily. “I was one myself once, but it’s so long ago I’ve forgotten what it’s like; and, thank heaven, it’s a stage that’s soon passed.”