"Thank you," said Alden, "for alluding to it as a drive. It's more like a walk."
"It isn't exactly like going out in a touring car," she admitted, "but it's very pleasant, nevertheless. It gives you time to look at the scenery."
"Also to photograph it if you should so desire. You don't even need to limit yourself to snap-shots. A time-exposure is altogether possible."
When they reached the post-office, Alden took her note, and went through the formality of tying the horse. He glanced at the superscription, not because he was interested in her unknown correspondent, but because the handwriting claimed his attention. Through the delicate angular tracery he made out the address: "Mr. William G. Lee." The street and number were beyond his skill in the brief time he had at his command.
"So," he said, when he came back, "you're Mrs. William G. I trust you don't call him 'William'?"
Mrs. William G.
"No—he's the sort of William who is always known as 'Billy.'"
"Good! That speaks well for him."
Alden began to wonder, as he alternately coaxed and threatened the horse toward the river-road, what manner of man she had married. Someone, undoubtedly, with the face and figure of Apollo, the courtesy of Chesterfield, and the character of a saint. "It was good of him," he said, gratefully, "to let you come to us."
Edith bit her lips and turned her face away. "I was glad to come," she answered, after a pause. For a moment she trembled upon the verge of a confidence, then summoned all her conversational powers to the rescue.