“He ain't.”
“I'm glad to hear it from headquarters,” said Mrs. Jim Jones. “I said I couldn't believe it was true.”
“Mr. Allen won't marry any girl in East Westland,” said Sylvia.
“Is there anybody in Boston?” asked Mrs. Jim Jones, losing her self-possession a little.
Sylvia played her trump card. “I don't know anything—that is, I ain't going to say anything,” she replied, mysteriously.
Mrs. Jim Jones was routed for a second, but she returned to the attack. She had not yet come to her particular errand. She felt that now was the auspicious moment. “I felt real sorry for you when I heard the news,” said she.
Sylvia did not in the least know what she meant. Inwardly she trembled, but she would have died before she betrayed herself. She would not even disclose her ignorance of what the news might be. She did not, therefore, reply in words, but gave a noncommittal grunt.
“I thought,” said Mrs. Jim Jones, driven to her last gun, “that you and Mr. Whitman had inherited enough to make you comfortable for life, and I felt real bad to find out you hadn't.”
Sylvia turned a little pale, but her gaze never flinched. She grunted again.
“I supposed,” said Mrs. Jim Jones, mouthing her words with intensest relish, “that there wouldn't be any need for Mr. Whitman to work any more, and when I heard he was going back to the shop, and when I saw him turn in there this morning, I declare I did feel bad.”