"Perfectly."
"And the traveling man who jollied you?"
"Yes."
"Well," she faltered, "he's the one. His name is Chapman."
Jean was too staggered for a prompt response, but Amy was still toiling among her explanations.
"You mustn't think anything of his nonsense that night," she went on. "It was only Fred's way. He's a born flirt. You couldn't help liking him, Jean, if you knew him."
Jean met her wistful appeal for sympathy, woman-wise. Words were impossible at first. By and by, when she could trust herself to speak, she wished her happiness.
"Does he—know?" she added.
Amy's fair skin went a shade rosier.
"My record, you mean? Nobody knows it better. Don't you—don't you catch on, Jean? He was the—the man!"