Next day the friends met at Eden's club, and after lunching they had an hour's conversation in the smoking-room. But their characters of the previous evening now seemed to be reversed—Eden talked and the other listened. An inexplicable change had come over the loquacious man of letters; he listened and seemed to be on his guard, drinking little, and saying nothing about his plans and prospects. “Damn the fellow, I can't make him out at all,” thought Eden, vexed that the other gave him no opportunity of introducing the subject he had been thinking so much about. He did not wish to introduce it himself, but in the end he was compelled to do so.
“By the way, Merton, before I forget it,” he said at length, “tell me about Miss Affleck, whom I met at your house last evening.”
Merton glanced at him and did not appear to be pleased at the question. “Oh, I see,” thought his friend, “the subject is not one that he finds agreeable. I must know why.”
“She is a friend of my wife's, but I have never seen much of her,” replied Merton. “She is an orphan, without money or expectations, I believe.” After an interval he added—“But I dare say you know as much as I can tell you about her, as you walked home or part of the way home with her last evening.”
This of course was a mere guess on Merton's part.
“Yes, I did, but I didn't question her, and I wanted to know where her people came from, the Afflecks—”
“Oh, I can soon satisfy your curiosity on that point. That is really not her name. She was adopted or something by a lady who took an interest in her for some reason, or for no reason, and who thought proper to give her that name because Miss Affleck's real surname didn't please her.”
“What was her real name?”
“I can't remember. Barnes, or Thompson, or Wilkins—one of those sort of names.”
“And how came the lady to call her Affleck?”