She knew that this view of her motive was not far from being the right one—and, womanlike, she shifted the discussion to new ground.
“Why do you call her Mrs. Van Brandt?” she asked. “Mrs. Van Brandt is the namesake of your first love. If you are so fond of her, why don’t you call her Mary?”
I was ashamed to give the true reason—it seemed so utterly unworthy of a man of any sense or spirit. Noticing my hesitation, she insisted on my answering her; she forced me to make my humiliating confession.
“The man who has parted us,” I said, “called her Mary. I hate him with such a jealous hatred that he has even disgusted me with the name! It lost all its charm for me when it passed his lips.”
I had anticipated that she would laugh at me. No! She suddenly raised her head as if she were looking at me intently in the dark.
“How fond you must be of that woman!” she said. “Do you dream of her now?”
“I never dream of her now.”
“Do you expect to see the apparition of her again?”
“It may be so—if a time comes when she is in sore need of help, and when she has no friend to look to but me.”
“Did you ever see the apparition of your little Mary?”