“It was Bunchy’s doing,” she said, listlessly. “He sent the priest a case o’ somethin’, to have it rung. I hated it.”
“Well,” said the Inger, “it was Bunchy’s own rope, then, that hung him. I shouldn’t have come down if I hadn’t heard the bell—” he paused perplexed. “You didn’t know I was down there, though?” he said.
“No, I thought you’d be up on the mountain when I went up. I didn’t think you’d be in town. You hardly ever,” she added, “did come down.”
He did not miss this: she had noticed, then, that he hardly ever came down.
“When I did come,” he said, “I always saw you with Bunchy. Only that once.”
“Only that once,” she assented, and did not meet his eyes. “Oh!” she cried, “I’ll be glad when we get to Washington and I’m off your hands! That’s why I wanted a job here—to be off your hands!”
On this the Inger was stabbed through with his certainty. It was true, then. She was longing to be free of him—and no wonder! To hide his hurt and his chagrin he turned to the waiter, who was arriving with flapjacks, and lifted candidly inquiring eyes.
“See anything the matter with my hands?” he drawled.
“No, sir,” said the man, in surprise.