‘Why, it’s simple enough,’ interposed Gerald. ‘Mrs Bowden hasn’t an amusement in the world except teasing her relatives, and she gets tired of that sometimes. But now chance informs her of a curious accident; and the little possibility of mystery and romance about it excites her, just because her own life happens to be free from either. It’s as good as a novel to her at present; but if the dénouement doesn’t come on quickly enough, she’ll lose interest in the matter, and soon forget all about it. She cares merely for the sensation.’
But Mrs Bowden’s interest in the unclaimed packet and in its unwilling possessor was curiously deep and persistent.
‘She asks far more questions about you than about Gerald,’ said May to me one fortunate half-hour when her brother had left me to be her escort to church. (Her employer managed very frequently to dispense with her attendance on Sundays, and thus made the day one of tenfold happiness to us.)
‘Then I hope you strain your conscience, and speak well of me in your replies?’
‘I say just what I think of you,’ she answered very demurely.
‘And that is——?’ I asked.
‘That you are Gerald’s friend.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Is it not enough?’
‘No—not nearly enough. Do you not like me for my own sake as well as for Gerald’s? It isn’t for his sake that I love you, May, and I shall not be content till you care for me for myself, independently of Gerald’s friendship.’