"Is this yours?" she asked. And her voice sounded strange in her ears.
The girl wheeled, showing a face disfigured with tears. "Oh, yes," she said, "it's mine! Did I drop it?"
Rachel continued to look at her without stirring. She passed her hand once or twice across her forehead. "You are Mrs. Emil St. Ives?"
"Why yes, I'm Mrs. St. Ives." The other was now gazing at her with curiosity.
So this was the girl who had helped Emil in the past, who helped him now,—the girl he preferred to her. Disdainful, she swept round. As she moved, she lifted her shoulders as if she would rid herself of something, but the action spoke forlornness.
"Why do you ask?" questioned the other, pursuing.
Rachel paused. "Nothing made me ask," she said, "only the name was familiar."
She was walking on when the girl caught her arm.
"Perhaps you know my husband?" she persisted. "Do you?"
Once more Rachel stood still. "Yes I know him—slightly."