"I was tryin' to get my wash out.... Where do you feel bad?"
"It's so hot, that's all," Eleanor said, faintly: "I—I'm not ill—thank you very much." She tried to smile, but the ruthless glare of sunshine through the open kitchen door showed her face strained, as if in physical suffering.
"I'm awfully sorry I can't tell you where Mrs. Dale lives," the woman said, sympathetically. "Was she a friend of yours?" Eleanor shook her head. "There! I'll tell you who maybe could tell you—the doctor. He took care of her baby. Doctor Nelson—"
"Nelson!"
"He's the hospital doctor now. Why don't you ask him?"
"Thank you," said Eleanor vaguely. She rose, saying she felt better and was much obliged. Then she went out on to the porch, and down the broken steps to the windy scorching street.
She was certain: Maurice had gone to Medfield to see Mrs. Dale...
Why?
She was quite calm, so calm that she found herself thinking that she had forgotten to get an yeast cake for Mary. "I'll get it as I go home," she thought. But as she stood waiting for the car it occurred to her that she had better think things out before she went home. Better not see Maurice until she had decided just how she should tell him that there was no use having secrets from her! That she knew he was seeing Mrs. Dale! Then he would have to tell her why he was seeing her... There could be only one reason... For a moment she was suffocated by that "reason"! She let the returning car pass, and signaled the one going out into the country; she would go, she told herself, to the end of the route, and by that time she would know what to do. The car was crowded, but a kindly faced young woman rose and offered her a seat. Eleanor declined it, although her knees were trembling.
"Oh, do take it!" the woman urged, pleasantly, and Eleanor could not resist sinking into it.