“It was when Tom sent me the five hundred—” the waiter heard her say as the curtain fell in place.
The man in the alcove behind the curtain was looking at her—“When did Tom send you—five hundred?”
“A year ago—a little more than a year, I think—” She paused to think it out. “He had not sent us anything, you know—not since little Tom was born—?” She was looking at him, straight——
His own look did not flinch. “I know—I put it into the business—called it investing it—for Tommie—at six per cent.”
She nodded. “Tom never liked it. I suppose mother told him—that we had not used it to buy things with—the way he meant us to.”
“For things you needed,” said the man. “I know—I knew then—but I took it.” He did not excuse himself—and his eyes did not look away from her. “I was blind,” he said softly.
“That was what Tom wrote—when he sent the five hundred. He said that I must spend it on myself—or return it to him.... And that I was to tell him just what I bought with it—every penny of it—” She waited a minute.
“Did he say anything else?” asked the man. “Better tell me everything, wouldn’t you—Rosalind?”
“He said that he was not setting Eldridge Walcott up in business,” she added after a little minute—and she smiled at him tenderly.
Eldridge returned the look—“We don’t mind—now.”