Part 31

"He's probably discovered it by this time. Still, I don't know--I've only been away a week."

"It isn't right," said Madame, decidedly. "You must let him know where you are."

"Why? I never know where he is."

"That doesn't make any difference. Two wrongs never make one perfect right. If you do your part, things will be only half wrong, instead of entirely so."

"I'll do whatever you think best," said Edith, humbly. "I came to you because I could think for myself no longer. I'll write him a note before luncheon, if you say so, and post it this afternoon."

"I do say so."

Therefore luncheon waited for a few moments, to Alden's secret impatience, until Edith came down with her note. She offered it to Madame, doubtfully. "Want to see it?"

"No, dear. I'll trust you."

She sealed it with shamefaced gladness that Madame had not availed herself of the opportunity. She was quite sure that her counsellor would not approve of the few formal lines which were all she had been able to make herself write.

After luncheon, when Alden assisted her into Madame's decrepit phaeton, and urged the superannuated horse into a wildly exciting pace of three miles an hour, she asked to be driven to the post-office.

"Thank you," said Alden, "for alluding to it as a drive. It's more like a walk."

"It isn't exactly like going out in a touring car," she admitted, "but it's very pleasant, nevertheless. It gives you time to look at the scenery."

"Also to photograph it if you should so desire. You don't even need to limit yourself to snap-shots. A time-exposure is altogether possible."

When they reached the post-office, Alden took her note, and went through the formality of tying the horse. He glanced at the superscription, not because he was interested in her unknown correspondent, but because the handwriting claimed his attention. Through the delicate angular tracery he made out the address: "Mr. William G. Lee." The street and number were beyond his skill in the brief time he had at his command.

"So," he said, when he came back, "you're Mrs. William G. I trust you don't call him 'William'?"

"No--he's the sort of William who is always known as 'Billy.'"

"Good! That speaks well for him."

Alden began to wonder, as he alternately coaxed and threatened the horse toward the river-road, what manner of man she had married. Someone, undoubtedly, with the face and figure of Apollo, the courtesy of Chesterfield, and the character of a saint. "It was good of him," he said, gratefully, "to let you come to us."

Edith bit her lips and turned her face away. "I was glad to come," she answered, after a pause. For a moment she trembled upon the verge of a confidence, then summoned all her conversational powers to the rescue.

She began with the natural beauty of the country through which they were driving, observed that the roads were better adapted to a horse than to an automobile, noted the pleasant situation of the Marsh house on the river shore, veered for a moment to the subject of good roads in France, came back to the blue reflection of the sky upon the smooth surface of the river, admired the situation of the vineyard, said that Madame's phaeton was extremely comfortable, and concluded by asking if it wasn't almost time for apple-blossoms.

"All of which means," said Alden, quietly, "that you're unhappily married."

"How do you know?" demanded Edith, crimson with surprise and mortification. "Did--did your mother tell you?"

"No, she didn't--most decidedly she didn't. I just know, that's all."

"How? Do I betray myself so completely as that?"

He answered her question by another. "How did you know, the night you came, that I was surprised and not altogether pleased by the fact that you had brought a trunk? Were my manners as bad as all that?"

"Why, no--I just knew."

"And how did you know, this morning, when we were sitting on the window-seat, that I was wondering whether or not you wore false hair?"

"Why--I just knew."