“Neither by sword nor by bow,” quickly said Shirley.
“She is the daughter of a Latin professor, my dear. Well, I think that we have discovered a common ancestry for the two girls. Do you suppose that this style of beauty breaks out occasionally during the centuries?”
Mr. Thorne was laughing as he spoke, but Mrs. Thorne was quite serious when she said that it could be accounted for in no other way. “Take it up in your club, dear,” said he. “They will settle it!”
But after Shirley had been again safely delivered at the Holland residence, Mr. Thorne in his car gave himself to serious reflection. Shirley, too, was thoughtful. What a queer experience,—to be sent to Sidney’s room, to see the fine pictures, the handsome rugs, the large rooms, with all their tasteful furniture and fittings, and to be, in a sense, in Sidney’s place, temporarily. They were dear people, Sidney’s father and mother.
“I almost played Sidney’s ghost, Hope. You don’t know how strange it seemed to be there, in Sidney’s home, without Sidney. It was odd for Mr. and Mrs. Thorne, too. But I can see that they wanted to know me and everything about me. We found that the Thornes are in the same line, ’way back, as the Dudleys, my mother’s people, and Mrs. Thorne thinks that accounts for our resemblance. But Mr. Thorne did not think so, and joked her about having her club decide it.”
Meanwhile Mr. Thorne was saying to his wife that he thought she more than half believed all the stuff that her aunt, Miss Standish, had taught Sidney. “You have made a mistake, I am afraid, my dear, to let Sidney get those ideas. They will make her snobbish,—and perhaps unhappy.”
“I never have the heart to stop Auntie, and what is the harm?”
“This resemblance, little wife, is very odd.”
“What do you make of it?”
“Nothing at present.”