"Oh, but you must leave Medfield!" he protested; "she"—that "she" made him wince—"she may try to hunt you up."
"She can't. She don't know my name."
Maurice felt as if privacy were being pulled away from his soul, as skin might be flayed from living flesh. "But you see," he began, huskily, "there's a—a girl who lives with us; and she—she mentioned your name." Then, cringing, he told her about Edith.
Lily looked blankly puzzled; then she remembered; "Why, yes, sure enough! It was right at the gate—oh, as much as four years ago; I slipped, and she grabbed Jacky. Yes; it comes back to me; she told me she seen me the time we got ducked. 'Course, I gave her the glassy eye, and said I didn't remember the gentleman in the boat with her. And she caught on that I lived here? Well, now, ain't the world small?"
"Damned small," Maurice said, dryly.
"Say," said Jacky, from the doorway, "I got a—"
"Well, she—I mean this young lady—told my—ah, wife that you lived on Maple Street, and—" He was stammering with angry embarrassment; Lily gave a cluck of dismay. "Confound it!" said Maurice; "what'll we do?"
"Now, don't you worry!" Lily said, cheerfully. "If she ever speaks to me again, I'll say, 'Why, you have the advantage of me!'"
Her mincing politeness made him laugh, in spite of his irritation. "I think you'd like it in New York?" he urged.
Lily's amber eyes were full of sympathy—but she was firm: "I wouldn't live in New York for anything!"