“Have you ever read any of Marian Haviland Norton?”
I didn’t expect, when I put the question, to fall right into a mine of information. It was out of my line, moreover, to talk about authors and books at dinner. But the topic had popped inconsequently into my head, and there was certainly something about the quiet, sly-looking Jane-Austenish woman at my left that inspired confidence.
“I’m distinctly curious about her,” I added. “She’s sprung up so soon, so authoritatively. And she’s so new.”
Up to this point my companion had only listened more quietly, more slyly, than ever; but her eyes now opened wide, her eyebrows went whimsically high, and she turned to me with a twinkling smile.
“New? You really think so?”
She gave me no time, either, to correct my statement.
“I didn’t suppose any one still thought that—except, possibly— Have you ever read Hurrell Oaks?”
I nodded gropingly.
“Miss Haviland was a teacher of mine at Newfair when it happened. That was eight, ten years ago. D’you see?”
“I don’t ‘see’ anything.”