“She told me a great deal about herself. She has been through Vassar and has traveled a great deal. This is the first summer since her graduation which she has not spent abroad. She and I talked of Rome and Florence. I—I told her of the month I spent in Italy when you were a baby, Roscoe.”
“You did not tell her anything more, Mother? Anything she should not know?”
“Boy!” reproachfully.
“Pardon me, Mother. Of course you didn't. Did she tell you why she called on us—on you, I mean?”
“Yes, in a way. I imagine—though she did not say so—that you are responsible for that. She and Nellie Dean seem to be well acquainted, almost friendly, which is odd, for I can scarcely think of two girls more different. But she likes Nellie, that is evident, and Nellie and George have told her about you and me.”
“I see. And so she was curious concerning the interesting invalid. Probably anything even mildly interesting is a godsend to her, down here. Did she mention the Shore Lane rumpus?”
“Yes. Although I mentioned it first. It was plain that she could not understand your position in the matter, Roscoe, and I explained it as well as I could. I told her that you felt the Lane was a necessity to the townspeople, and that, under the circumstances, you could not sell. I told her how deeply you sympathized with her mother—”
“Did you tell her that?”
“Why, yes. It is true, isn't it?”
“Humph! Mildly so, maybe. What more did she say?”