“Yes, Miss Webster.”
“Who’s that out in the garden?”
“Where?”
“Over there near the lilac hedge,” specified Ellen impatiently.
Melvina rubbed her glasses then smothered a little gasp; but she quickly recovered her wonted stolidity.
“It’s Miss Lucy, I reckon,” she said slowly.
“But the man—the man!” persisted Ellen. “Who is he?”
“Oh, the man. That’s Mr. Howe—the one that lives next door.”
“Martin Howe?”
“Yes, I believe they do call him Martin,” responded Melvina imperturbably, resuming her interrupted task of turning the mattress and plumping its feathers into luxurious billows of softness.