“Oh—er—I don't remember. Last summer, I think.”
“Why, you must remember. How could any one forget anything that happened down here? So few things do happen, I should say. So you met him last summer?”
“Yes.”
“Hum! that's odd.”
“Shall I call Atkins? He's in his room.”
“I say it is odd, because, when Mrs. Bascom and I first met you, you told us this was your first summer here.”
There wasn't any answer to this; at least the assistant could think of none at the moment.
“Do you wish me to call Atkins?” he asked, sharply. “He's asleep, but I can wake him.”
“Oh! he's asleep. Now I understand why you whisper even when you sw—that is, when you break a plate. You were afraid of waking him. How considerate you are.”
Brown put down the dishcloth. “It isn't altogether consideration for him—or for myself,” he said grimly. “I didn't care to wake him unless you took the responsibility.”