Mr. Clark's face relaxed.
“It took me back to the old scenes,” continued Mrs. Bowman, dreamily. “I have never kept anything back from you, Nathaniel. I told you all about the first man I ever thought anything of—Charlie Tucker?”
Mr. Clark cleared his throat. “You did,” he said, a trifle hoarsely. “More than once.”
“I've just had a letter from him,” said Mrs. Bowman, simpering. “Fancy, after all these years! Poor fellow, he has only just heard of my husband's death, and, by the way he writes—”
She broke off and drummed nervously on the table.
“He hasn't heard about me, you mean,” said Mr. Clark, after waiting to give her time to finish.
“How should he?” said the widow.
“If he heard one thing, he might have heard the other,” retorted Mr. Clark. “Better write and tell him. Tell him that in six weeks' time you'll be Mrs. Clark. Then, perhaps, he won't write again.”
Mrs. Bowman sighed. “I thought, after all these years, that he must be dead,” she said, slowly, “or else married. But he says in his letter that he has kept single for my sake all these years.”
“Well, he'll be able to go on doing it,” said Mr. Clark; “it'll come easy to him after so much practice.”