One day he was alone with Mrs. Schmitz in the lily house. They had worked for some time in silence when she asked suddenly, “How old you think iss Miss Jones?”
“She said she was eighteen.”
“Mine leetle Ida would be eighteen already”
A sigh that was almost a sob was her only reply, and she worked silently for some minutes, when she said abruptly, “Mine leetle Ida would be eighteen already.” She pronounced the name as if it were spelled Eda.
“How old was she when—when she—” Sydney could not make himself finish the sentence.
“Last time I saw her she was five. But if she live or if she iss dead I know not. Most times I think she iss dead. To think she lives makes me crazy almost, for I do not find her.”
“Are you still looking—hunting—”
“Always. All the time I have men paid to hunt. But they do not find—her. They say she iss dead.”
Sydney was troubled at her distress. She continued her work, but he saw tears falling on the plants she handled. He had never seen her cry before. Tears embarrassed him; and he pottered about awkwardly, waiting for her to speak, wondering if it would be more polite to “sneak” out of the lily house, or remain and give some sign of sympathy. As a compromise he turned his back and coughed apologetically, thoroughly uncomfortable.