“I don't know his name.”
Mrs. Mitchett's face twitched.
“Oh, dear!” she said: “Think of that! She's never said as much to us.”
“Not know his name?” Pierson murmured. “But how—how could you—” he stopped, but his face had darkened. “Surely you would never have done such a thing without affection? Come, tell me!”
“I don't know it,” the girl repeated.
“It's these Parks,” said Mrs. Mitchett, from behind her handkerchief. “And to think that this'll be our first grandchild and all! 'Ilda is difficult; as quiet, as quiet; but that stubborn—”
Pierson looked at the girl, who seemed, if anything, less interested than ever. This impenetrability and something mulish in her attitude annoyed him. “I can't think,” he said, “how you could so have forgotten yourself. It's truly grievous.”
Mrs. Mitchett murmured: “Yes, sir; the girls gets it into their heads that there's going to be no young men for them.”
“That's right,” said the girl sullenly.
Pierson's lips grew tighter. “Well, what can I do for you, Mrs. Mitchett?” he said. “Does your daughter come to church?”