“That’s most interesting, now—this concealed thought in my mind. Think of it, my dear, it is up there in my head hiding from consciousness! It was a question—I am sure of that—but about what I can’t guess.”
“Perhaps it was about Mr. Richard?”
Geraldine knew her mother. One might as well have the thing out now rather than later. This was a good safe time, while they walked alone.
“Yes!” Mrs. Wells called out triumphantly. “It was! That’s a clue, at any rate. It was about Mr. Richard and—wait!... And it was about your kimono ... wait! Don’t speak for a minute.”
They walked along for the full minute.
“No,” the mother shook her head; “it poked its head out; I almost put my hand on it, but it slipped back again. It was about this Mr. Richard, and about your kimono—oh, I can see your kimono plainly!—and about your search on the deck for Walter. I can see you bending over a man and saying something to him. What made you ever suspect that man to be Walter? Why, he had startling white shoes and white trousers, a get-up that Walter detests.... Oh! Wait!... No, it’s gone again. I thought I had it.”
Geraldine felt thankful that Mr. Richard had at least two changes of raiment. On the day of her adventure he had been attired in grey coat and white shoes and trousers. That is why she thought she had her man when she awoke the unknown sleeper on the upper deck and inquired, “Is that you, Richard?” “Is that you, Richard?” she had asked, she felt so sure that she had the right man; and when he had looked up with a “Eh, what?” the shadow of his cap was so dark on his face that she did not see her mistake until after she had said, “This is Jerry.” The man had risen gallantly and came out into the light of an oil-lamp. He was quite different from Richard now; but when he saw the lady’s face he was eager to be Richard or any other man the lady willed.
“Too excited over Walter, I suppose,” Mrs. Wells answered her own question. “There! I won’t talk to you any more. You look dead tired from these last few days. You are not yourself at all, my dear. You used to be such a chatterbox; now, you are becoming actually—reserved and self-contained.”
They walked several deliberate steps before Geraldine said pleasantly, “Do you think so, mother?”
“There!” the mother exclaimed good-humouredly. “We walk five strides—plump! plump!”—and she counted out five more heavy steps with a “plump!” for each step—“before you say, ‘Do you think so, mother?’ And now that I think of it, such a non-committal phrase, ‘Do I think so?’ It throws the whole thing back on me. It doesn’t admit anything.” She squeezed her daughter’s arm affectionately. “Now that’s fine, Geraldine. I hope it is permanent. There’s no use giving yourself away by incessant chatter. But, my lady, I’ll have to study you all over again. This reserve and non-committalishness is very hard to read. I used to be able to look into your mind and see the gold-fish and count every one of them. It was like a sweet little aquarium, my dear, the kind with a tiny romantic castle—greatly exaggerated—at the bottom. I’m glad that’s smashed. You got to be too pure and easy. I was aching for something harder, something——”