"No, she never mentions it."
"Well, that was awful, too—for poor Mama. About four years after the divorce, one night when we were all at home—it was just after Mama and I came back from Europe, and the year before Hendrick and I were married—suddenly there was a rush in the hall, and in came Theodore's wife—Louison Courtot! It seems Mama had been in touch with her ever since we returned, but none of us knew that. And she had Leslie with her, a little thing about four years old—Leslie just faintly remembers it. She had fought Mama off, at first, about giving her baby up, but now she was going to be married, and she had finally consented to do as Mama wanted. Leslie came over to me, and got into my lap, and went to sleep, I remember. Theodore was terribly ill, and I remember that Louison was quite gentle with him—surprised us all, in fact, she was so mild. She had been a wild thing, but always most self-respecting; a prude, in fact. She even stooped over Theodore, and kissed him good-bye, and then she knelt down and kissed Leslie, and went away. Mama had intended that she should always see the child, if she wanted to, but she never came again. She was married, I know, a few weeks later, and long afterward Mama told me that she was dead. Ted came to adore the baby, and of course she's been the greatest comfort to Mama, so it all turns out right, after all. But we're a sweet family!" finished Annie, rising to go downstairs. "And now," she added, on the stairs, "if there were to be serious trouble between Acton and Leslie——Well, it isn't thinkable!"
Leslie herself, charming in a flowered silky dress, with a wide flowery hat on her yellow hair, was waiting for them in the big, shaded hallway. The little matron was extremely attractive in her new dignities, and her babyish face looked more ridiculously youthful than ever as she talked of "my husband," "my little girl," "my house," and "my attorney."
Leslie, like Annie and Alice, was habitually wrapped in her own affairs, more absorbed in the question of her own minute troubles than in the most widespread abuses of the world. When Leslie saw a coat, the identity of the wearer interested her far less than the primary considerations of the coat's cut and material, and the secondary decision whether or not she herself would like such a garment. Consequently, she glanced but apathetically at Norma; she had seen the dotted blue swiss before, and the cornflower hat; she had seen Aunt Annie's French organdie; there was nothing there either to envy or admire.
"How's the baby, dear; and how's Acton?" Annie asked, perfunctorily. Leslie sighed.
"Oh, they're both fine," she answered, indifferently. "I've been all upset because my cook got married—just walked out. I told Acton not to pay her, but of course he did; it's nothing to him if my whole house is upset by the selfishness of somebody else. He and Chris are going off this afternoon with Joe and Denny Page, for the Thousand Islands——"
"I didn't know Chris was here!" Annie said, in surprise.
"I didn't, myself. He came up with Acton, late last night. They'd motored all the way; I was asleep when they got in. I didn't know it until I found him at breakfast this morning——"
Norma's heart stood still. The name alone was enough to shake her to the very soul, but the thought that he was here—in Newport—this minute, and that she might not see him, probably indeed would not see him, made her feel almost faint.
She had not seen him since the meeting on the hotel steps nearly two weeks ago. It had been the longest and the saddest two weeks in Norma's life. It was in vain that she reminded herself that her love for him was weakness and madness, and that by no possible shift of circumstances could it come to happy consummation. It was in vain that she pondered Alice's claims, and all the family claims, and the general claim of society as an institution. Deep and strong and unconquerable above them all rose the tide of love and passion, the gnawing and burning hunger for the sight of him, the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand.