“Of course I didn’t say ‘shouldn’t.’ ” Mildred explained, gravely. “I meant only that I’m sorry it happened.”
“Yes; but why?”
“Mama”—Mildred turned to her, leaning forward and speaking in a lowered voice—“Mama, at first the change was so little it seemed as if Arthur hardly knew it himself. He’d been lovely to me always, and he was still lovely to me but—oh, well, you’ve understood—after my dance it was more as if it was just his nature and his training to be lovely to me, as he would be to everyone a kind of politeness. He’d never said he CARED for me, but after that I could see he didn’t. It was clear—after that. I didn’t know what had happened; I couldn’t think of anything I’d done. Mama—it was Alice Adams.”
Mrs. Palmer set her little coffee-cup upon the table beside her, calmly following her own motion with her eyes, and not seeming to realize with what serious entreaty her daughter’s gaze was fixed upon her. Mildred repeated the last sentence of her revelation, and introduced a stress of insistence.
“Mama, it WAS Alice Adams!”
But Mrs. Palmer declined to be greatly impressed, so far as her appearance went, at least; and to emphasize her refusal, she smiled indulgently. “What makes you think so?”
“Henrietta told me yesterday.”
At this Mrs. Palmer permitted herself to laugh softly aloud. “Good heavens! Is Henrietta a soothsayer? Or is she Arthur’s particular confidante?”
“No. Ella Dowling told her.”
Mrs. Palmer’s laughter continued. “Now we have it!” she exclaimed. “It’s a game of gossip: Arthur tells Ella, Ella tells Henrietta, and Henrietta tells–-“
“Don’t laugh, please, mama,” Mildred begged. “Of course Arthur didn’t tell anybody. It’s roundabout enough, but it’s true. I know it! I hadn’t quite believed it, but I knew it was true when he got so red. He looked—oh, for a second or so he looked —stricken! He thought I didn’t notice it. Mama, he’s been to see her almost every evening lately. They take long walks together. That’s why he hasn’t been here.”
Of Mrs. Palmer’s laughter there was left only her indulgent smile, which she had not allowed to vanish. “Well, what of it?” she said.
“Mama!”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Palmer. “What of it?”
“But don’t you see?” Mildred’s well-tutored voice, though modulated and repressed even in her present emotion, nevertheless had a tendency to quaver. “It’s true. Frank Dowling was going to see her one evening and he saw Arthur sitting on the stoop with her, and didn’t go in. And Ella used to go to school with a girl who lives across the street from here. She told Ella–-“
“Oh, I understand,” Mrs. Palmer interrupted. “Suppose he does go there. My dear, I said, ‘What of it?’”
“I don’t see what you mean, mama. I’m so afraid he might think we knew about it, and that you and papa said those things about her and her father on that account—as if we abused them because he goes there instead of coming here.”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Palmer rose, went to a window, and, turning there, stood with her back to it, facing her daughter and looking at her cheerfully. “Nonsense, my dear! It was perfectly clear that she was mentioned by accident, and so was her father. What an extraordinary man! If Arthur makes friends with people like that, he certainly knows better than to expect to hear favourable opinions of them. Besides, it’s only a little passing thing with him.”
“Mama! When he goes there almost every–-“
“Yes,” Mrs. Palmer said, dryly. “It seems to me I’ve heard somewhere that other young men have gone there ‘almost every!’ She doesn’t last, apparently. Arthur’s gallant, and he’s impressionable— but he’s fastidious, and fastidiousness is always the check on impressionableness. A girl belongs to her family, too—and this one does especially, it strikes me! Arthur’s very sensible; he sees more than you’d think.”
Mildred looked at her hopefully. “Then you don’t believe he’s likely to imagine we said those things of her in any meaning way?”
At this, Mrs. Palmer laughed again. “There’s one thing you seem not to have noticed, Mildred.”
“What’s that?”
“It seems to have escaped your attention that he never said a word.”
“Mightn’t that mean–-?” Mildred began, but she stopped.
“No, it mightn’t,” her mother replied, comprehending easily. “On the contrary, it might mean that instead of his feeling it too deeply to speak, he was getting a little illumination.”
Mildred rose and came to her. “WHY do you suppose he never told us he went there? Do you think he’s—do you think he’s pleased with her, and yet ashamed of it? WHY do you suppose he’s never spoken of it?”
“Ah, that,” Mrs. Palmer said,—“that might possibly be her own doing. If it is, she’s well paid by what your father and I said, because we wouldn’t have said it if we’d known that Arthur–-” She checked herself quickly. Looking over her daughter’s shoulder, she saw the two gentlemen coming from the corridor toward the wide doorway of the room; and she greeted them cheerfully. “If you’ve finished with each other for a while,” she added, “Arthur may find it a relief to put his thoughts on something prettier than a trust company—and more fragrant.”
Arthur came to Mildred.
“Your mother said at lunch that perhaps you’d–-“
“I didn’t say ‘perhaps,’ Arthur,” Mrs. Palmer interrupted, to correct him. “I said she would. If you care to see and smell those lovely things out yonder, she’ll show them to you. Run along, children!”
Half an hour later, glancing from a window, she saw them come from the hothouses and slowly cross the lawn. Arthur had a fine rose in his buttonhole and looked profoundly thoughtful.
