Maurice said, briefly, why, yes; he believed he remembered.
"I remember that girl, too," Eleanor said; "Maurice told me about her."
"Well, what do you suppose?" Edith said; "I saw her to-day."
Maurice, pushing back his chair, got up and went into the little room opening into the dining room, which they called the library. At his desk, his pen in his hand, his jaw set, he sat listening—listening! What in hell would she say next? What she said was harmless enough:
"Yes, I saw her. I was walking home, and on Maple Street who should I see going into a house but this woman! She was lugging a flower pot, and a baby. And,—now, isn't this funny?—she sort of stumbled at the gate, right by me! And I grabbed her, and kept the child from falling; and I said—" In the library Maurice's face was white—"I said, 'Why, I saw you once—you're Miss Dale. Your boat upset,' And she said, 'You have the advantage of me.' Of course she isn't a lady, you know."
Eleanor smiled, and called significantly to her husband, "Edith says your rescued friend isn't a 'lady,' Maurice!" He didn't answer, and she added to Edith, "No; she certainly isn't a lady! Darling," she called again; "do you suppose she's got married?"
To which he answered, "Where did I put those sheets of blotting paper, Eleanor?"
"Oh yes, she's married," Edith said, scraping her plate; "she told me her name was Mrs. Henry Dale. She couldn't seem to remember Maurice giving her his coat, which I thought was rather funny in her, 'cause Maurice is so handsome you'd think she'd remember him. And I said he was 'Mr. Curtis,' and she said she'd never heard the name. I got to talking to her," ("I bet you did," Maurice thought, despairingly); "and she told me that 'Jacky' had had the measles, and been awfully sick, but he was all well now, and she'd taken him into Mercer to get him a cap." ("What's Lily mean by bringing the Thing into town!" Jacky's father was saying through set teeth.) "She was perfectly bursting with pride about him," Edith went on; "said he was 'a reg'lar rascal'! Isn't it queer that I should meet her, after all these years?"
When Eleanor went into the library to hunt for the blotting paper, she, too, commented on the queerness of Edith's stumbling on the lady who wasn't a lady. "How small the world is!" said Eleanor. "Why, Maurice, here's the paper! Right before you!"
"Oh," said Maurice, "yes; thank you." He was saying to himself, "I might have known this kind of thing would happen!" He was consumed with anxiety to ask Edith some questions, but of course he had to be silent. To show even the slightest interest was impossible—and Edith volunteered no further information, for that night Eleanor took occasion to intimate to her that "Mrs. Dale" must not be referred to. "You can't speak of that kind of person, you know."