“And your name is Bonnie May. Is that the full name, or——”
“Yes, that’s the full name.”
Mrs. Harrod pondered. “You’re not of the Prof. Mays, are you?”
“Why, I’m of—of professional people. I’m not sure I’m of the Mays you’re thinking about.” She edged herself from her chair uneasily. “I hope I haven’t forgotten myself,” she added. “I’m sure I should have let Mrs. Baron know you are here. I think you didn’t say what the name is?”
“I’m Mrs. Harrod. I hope you’ll remember. I would be glad if you’d be a friend of mine, too.”
The child’s dilemma, whatever it had been, was past. She smiled almost radiantly. “I’m very glad to have met you, Mrs. Harrod,” she said. She advanced and extended her hand again. “I truly hope I’ll have the pleasure of meeting you again.”
Then she was off up the stairs, walking sedately. It had meant much to her that this nice woman, who was clearly not of the profession, had talked to her without patronizing her, without “talking down” to her.
A strange timidity overwhelmed her when she appeared at Mrs. Baron’s door. “It’s Mrs. Harrod,” she said, and there was a slight catch in her voice. “I mean, Mrs. Harrod has called. I let her in.”
Mrs. Baron, standing in her doorway, was fixing an old-fashioned brooch in place. She flushed and there was swift mistrust in her eyes. “Oh!” she cried weakly. The sound was almost like a moan. “I thought Mrs. Shepard——”
“I didn’t tell her I was—I didn’t tell her who I was. I thought you would rather I didn’t. I was just nice to her, and she was nice to me.”