“The one I asked you to look out for?”
“Yes.”
“Well, isn't that fine! She was very pretty. I hope you'll be ever so happy.”
“Thanks, Charity—thank you. Mighty nice of you! Of course, you know—er—Well, here she is.” He beckoned to Kedzie, who came forward. “Mrs. Cheever, my wife. But you've met, haven't you?”
“Oh yes, indeed,” said Charity Coe, with an effusion of cordiality that roused Kedzie's suspicions more than her gratitude. The first woman she met was already trying to get into her good graces! Charity Coe went on, with a little difficulty:
“But Mrs. Dyckman doesn't remember me. I met you at Mrs. Noxon's.”
“Oh yes,” said Kedzie, and a slow, heavy crimson darkened her face like a stream of treacle.
The first woman she met was reminding her of the time she was a poor young dancer with neither clothes nor money. It was outrageous to have this flung in her face at the very gate of Eden.
She was extremely cold to Charity Coe, and Charity saw it. Jim Dyckman died the death at finding Kedzie so cruel to the one who had befriended her. But he could not rebuke his wife, even before his lost love. So he said nothing.
Charity caught the heartsick, hangdog look in his eyes, and she forbore to slice Kedzie up with sarcasm. She bade her a most gracious farewell and moved on.