"Then it was the very same little boy!" Charlotte said.
"Who was the very same little boy?" her mother demanded.
"The one that was there to-day; the young man, I mean," Charlotte explained, and then she told what had happened with a want of fullness which her mother's imagination supplied.
"Did he say who he was? Is he coming back to-morrow or this afternoon? Did you inquire who he was or where?"
"What an idea, mother!" Charlotte said, grouping the several impossibilities under one head in her answer.
"You had a perfect right to know, if you thought he was the one."
"But I didn't think he was the one, and I don't know that he is now; and if he was, what could I do about it?"
"That is true," Mrs. Forsyth owned. "But it's very disappointing. I've always felt as if they ought to know it was your undecidedness and not ungenerousness."
Charlotte laughed a little forlornly, but she only said, "Really, mother!"
Mrs. Forsyth was still looking at the curtains. "Well, these are not the scrims I wanted. You must go back. I believe I will go with you. The sooner we have it over the better," she added, and she left the undecided Charlotte to decide whether she meant the scrim curtains or the young man's identity.