“Wait.” He laid down the switch of witch-hazel and drew nearer. “Our acquaintance is not so short; it commenced six years ago in New York.”
Vera stared at him intently. “I fail to recollect,” she began, and paused uncertainly.
Instead of answering verbally he took out his leather wallet and, searching among its contents, finally produced a black-edged visiting-card. On the reverse side were traced the words:
February 14—In grateful remembrance.
CHAPTER XI
MRS. PORTER GROWS INQUISITIVE
A SILENCE followed, so heavy as to be felt, then Vera took the black-edged card and, reversing it, read the engraved name. A rush of memories obliterated the bleak countryside. In its place she saw a busy city street, a swaying figure, a cry for help, the later clang of the emergency ambulance—and the last agonizing parting from her beloved mother. She had been conscious of the aid rendered by the skilful hospital interne, but her mother had focused her attention to the exclusion of all else. After the funeral she had sent a present with her card “In grateful remembrance” to the city hospital authorities, asking them to see that it reached the surgeon who had attended her mother.
A sudden rush of tears almost blinded Vera, and the card fluttered to the rock unheeded.
“Dr. Thorne”—her voice was not fully under control and a quiver crept into it—“I did not know—I had no idea—” She stammered and broke down.
“Don’t.” Thorne swung himself up on the rock beside her and gazed at her with contrition. “Please don’t cry.”
But the injunction was hardly needed, for Vera pulled herself together, and except for a few tears which she winked violently away, she had herself in hand again as she faced him.