“I can’t say confidently whether he would recognize you or not,” she said, answering her question. “He might think there was something familiar about you, and yet seeing you in such a crowd, not feel confident you were the same person. You may have changed more to other eyes than to mine you know. But what has that to do with your tears, my pet?”
“One more question, auntie, first,” persisted Dora, turning away her burning face from madam’s piercing gaze. “Did you notice Mr. Ellerton when he picked up my bouquet?”
“Yes, dear,” replied her aunt, starting violently, and becoming more and more convinced that the two were old friends. She went on.
“He gazed very earnestly at you for a few moments. He then turned his look upon the flowers again, and suddenly became very pale and abstracted. I looked at you then, and your eyes were downcast, while I thought you looked confused, about a very little thing—if throwing a bouquet could make you lose your self-possession.”
“It wasn’t that, auntie,” returned Dora, desperately. “I—I—put a note in that bouquet.”
“Dora—Dora Dupont!” cried Madame Alroyd, in a voice of amazement, and lifting her hands in horror. “You don’t mean to tell me that you did such an indelicate thing as that! I don’t wonder now at his strange looks. Did you ever know that young man before?”
“Yes, auntie,” replied her niece, in a low, clear voice. “Robert Ellerton is my husband!”
“What!” shrieked the old lady, bounding from her seat like an India rubber ball, and gazing upon Dora as if she thought she was demented.
“It is true, auntie,” said she, sadly, “and the note I put among my flowers was to tell him I was here, and asking him to come to me.”
“Is the child crazy? I believe you are. Oh, I wish we had never come here now. For pity’s sake tell me what you mean, child!” she muttered wildly, while she walked the floor with a woeful face and wrung her hands.