"People need never know now!" she said more calmly.
"People? Do people matter?"
She picked a daisy and began nervously to strip it of its petals—a pang of agony caught at the man's heart. So, only that morning, had he imagined himself consulting the daisy oracle. "She loves me, she loves me not." Absolutely he put the memory from him. Molly was speaking.
"People do matter. They make things so unpleasant. Not that I care as much about them as I used to; but still, one has to be careful. People are so prying, always wanting to know things," she glanced around nervously, "but let's not talk about them. I don't understand things yet. How did you find me, if you thought I was—dead?"
"Accident, if there be such a thing. I was driving down the road. I am living in the town near here—in Coombe!"
"But you can't! I live in Coombe. It is my home. There isn't a Chedridge in the place."
"My name is not Chedridge now. I took my uncle's name when I inherited his money. I am called Henry Callandar."
"Callandar!" Her voice rose shrilly on the word. "And you are living in
Coombe? Why you are—you must be—Esther's Dr. Callandar!"
The man went deathly white, yet his enormous self-control, the fruit of years, held him steady.
Mary Coombe began to laugh weakly. "Why, of course, that explains it all, don't you see? Haven't you placed me yet? Esther is my step-daughter. The man I married was Doctor Coombe."