“Why, yes; everybody knows all about him,” said Mrs. French.
And then they laid their work down and relapsed into meditation.
“Oh!” said Mrs. Hunter, in a moment. “No, though—”
“Why, you know,” said Mrs. French,—“no—I guess, on the whole—”
“You remember,” said the Doctor's wife to Mrs. French, with a faint smile, “the time he papered my east chamber—don't you—how he made the pattern come?”
And then they both laughed gently for a moment.
“Well, I have always known him,” said Mrs. French. “But really, being asked so suddenly, it seems to drive everything out of my head.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Hunter, “and it's odd that I can't think of exactly the thing, just at this min-ute; but if I do, I will run over to the parsonage this evening.”
“Yes, so will I,” said Mrs. French; “I know that I shall think of oceans of things just as soon as you are gone.”
“Won't you stay to tea?” said Mrs. Hunter, as Holt rose to go. “The Doctor has gone; but we never count on him.”