Part 22

“Really you know better than I do whether I’ve told the truth about Hilary.”

A pause ensued. Then Mrs. Hilary made three short remarks, which I give in their order:

(1) “The little wretch!” (2) “Dear old Hilary!” (3) “Poor little man!”

I took my hat. I knew that Hilary was due from the city in a few minutes. Mrs. Hilary sat down by the fire.

“How dare you torment me so?” she asked, but not in the least like Lady Macbeth.

“I must have my little amusements,” said I.

“What an audacious little creature!” said Mrs. Hilary. “Fancy his daring!--Aren’t you astounded?”

“Oh, yes, I am. But Hilary, you see--”

“It’s nearly his time,” said Mrs. Hilary.

I buttoned my left glove and held out my right hand.

“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.