“Yes; I—I have your letter. I received it about an hour ago. It was forwarded to me—to my cousin and me—here in London.”
“Here in London! Then you did not come to London in answer to that letter?”
“No. My cousin and I—”
“What cousin? What is his name?”
“His name? It isn't a—That is, the cousin is a woman. She is Miss Hephzibah Cahoon, your—your mother's half-sister. She is—Why, she is your aunt!”
It was a fact; Hephzibah was this young lady's aunt. I don't know why that seemed so impossible and ridiculous, but it did. The young lady herself seemed to find it so.
“My aunt?” she repeated. “I didn't know—But—but, why is my—my aunt here with you?”
“We are on a pleasure trip. We—I beg your pardon. What have I been thinking of? Don't stand. Please sit down.”
She accepted the invitation. As she walked toward the chair it seemed to me that she staggered a little. I noticed then for the first time, how very slender she was, almost emaciated. There were dark hollows beneath her eyes and her face was as white as the bed-linen—No, I am wrong; it was whiter than Mrs. Briggs' bed-linen.
“Are you ill?” I asked involuntarily.