“I’ve a good mind not to shake hands with you,” said she. “Wasn’t it
absurd of Hilary?”
“Horribly.”
“He ought to have been all the more angry.”
“Of course he ought.”
“The presumption of it!” And Mrs. Hilary smiled. I also smiled.
“That poor old mother of his,” reflected Mrs. Hilary. “Where did you say
she lived?”
“Hilary knows the address,” said I.
“Silly little wretch!” mused Mrs. Hilary, still smiling.
“Goodbye,” said I.
“Goodbye,” said Mrs. Hilary.
I turned toward the door and had laid my hand on the knob, when Mrs.
Hilary called softly:
“Mr. Carter.”
“Yes,” said I, turning.
“Do you know where the little wretch has gone?”
“Oh, yes,” said I.
“I--I suppose you don’t ever write to him?”
“Dear me, no,” said I.
“But you--could?” suggested Mrs. Hilary.
“Of course,” said I.
She jumped up and ran towards me. Her purse was in one hand, and a bit
of paper fluttered in the other.
“Send him that--don’t tell him,” she whispered, and her voice had a
little catch in it. “Poor little wretch!” said she.
As for me, I smiled cynically--quite cynically, you know; for it was
very absurd.
“Please do,” said Mrs. Hilary.
And I went.
Supposing it had been another woman? Well, I wonder!