“I was afraid she was one of them married flirts that’s getting so fashionable nowadays,” muttered Mrs. Meade.
“A married flirt! No, indeed! I believe Mrs. Falconer is as pure and sweet and shy as a child. She is so much like one I knew years ago that she could not be otherwise,” exclaimed Norman Wylde earnestly, as he fondled Pet, who had crept to his knee, thus consoling himself for the departure of his “pretty yady.”
Mrs. Meade looked up, all eager interest.
“Like some one you knew?” she exclaimed eagerly.
“Yes,” he replied, with a heavy sigh, and the housekeeper asked coaxingly:
“Would you mind telling me whom she looked like, Mr. Norman?”
“Curiosity, thy name is woman!” he said, with a low laugh, half dreary amusement, half bitterness; then, with another sigh, he went on: “Mrs. Meade, I suppose you know all about my unfortunate love affair of three years ago?”
She nodded, and then he said:
“This beautiful Mrs. Falconer is the image of the girl I loved, and from whom my parents parted me. She committed suicide by drowning within a year after I went away, you remember?”
“Ah!” exclaimed the old housekeeper, and her face began to glow with excitement.