“It’s a young one,” and Florence laughed, for she could not help being amused. “I don’t know if you ever saw him—Mr. Wimple?” Mrs. North rocked to and fro, with wicked delight, till the last words came; then she grew quite grave.
“Oh, but I am sorry,” she said, “for I have seen him; and he didn’t look nice; he looked—rather horrid.”
“I am afraid he did,” Florence answered regretfully.
“Do tell me all about it”—but the only account that Florence was able to give did not satisfy Mrs. North. “You must have seen something of the love-making beforehand?” she said.
“I am afraid I saw nothing of that either,” Florence explained, “for I was in London, and she was at the cottage.”
“I thought she liked him when she was here,” Mrs. North said; “but, of course, I never dreamed of her being in love with him. She used to meet him and go to contemplate the Albert Memorial. Sometimes, when I was out alone, I drove by them; but I pretended to be blind, for I did not want to invite him here—he was so unattractive. He called once, but I did not encourage him to come again. I would give anything to see them together. If I knew where she lived, I would brave everything, and call upon her, though she probably wouldn’t let me in.”
Then Florence began to be a little puzzled. What did Mrs. North mean? Had she done anything—anything bad? Almost without knowing it she looked up and asked, “Is Mr. North quite well?” The colour flew to Mrs. North’s face again.
“Oh yes, I suppose so,” she answered coldly. “Naturally I don’t inquire after his health.”
“You had had a telegram last time I saw you——”
“I remember”—it was said bitterly. “I wondered why he was coming back so suddenly.”