"Who lives in that beautiful cottage painted white, with that wonderful assortment of prettily arranged flowers in the front yard?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Dalton live there," replied Mrs. Morgan, looking intently at Dorlan, seeking to fathom the secret purpose which she felt inspired his question; for she knew that Dorlan paid but little attention to the matter of houses and neighbors.
"Have Mr. and Mrs. Dalton any children—a daughter?" asked Dorlan, giving strict attention to the food on his plate.
"No; they are childless," said Mrs. Morgan, her interest growing.
"I saw a young woman up there as I passed this evening; I suppose she is visiting them."
"I see the point—a young woman," said Mrs. Morgan inwardly.
Aloud she said, "Perhaps so. If you could describe her I might be able to tell who she is."
Dorlan looked up quickly as much as to say, "Who in the world can describe that beautiful woman." He kept that reflection to himself. He began to describe the lady, when Mrs. Morgan interrupted him to say.
"Oh, that was Mrs. Dalton—Mrs. Harry Dalton—undoubtedly the most beautiful Negro girl in the country."
Dorlan finished his meal in silence. He inwardly belabored himself for having allowed his mind to be so taken up with the image of a married woman. Repairing to his room, he was soon deeply engrossed in a book, as thoroughly oblivious of Morlene, he thought, as if he had never seen or heard of such a person.