shrewdly. "I shall begin my sauce. Yes, spaghetti will be exactly right. Both friendly and delicious, but not distracting."
Althea made a slow, wide circle with the mop. "They'll be here for dinner," she remarked. It wasn't a question. It wasn't a comment. It was as if the thought in her mind had got expressed accidentally.
"Flowers!" cried Grandy.
"Let Jane do the flowers," Althea said. Tm just out of a sickbed. I decline to get my feet wet."
"The rain is only in your sulky little heart," said Grandy lightly.
Oliver, standing in the arch, asked suspiciously, "What rain? Whose heart?"
The minister's house was one of those city brownstones with a high stoop and a double-doored entry. The white lace curtains were spotless and crisp. The paint around the window frames was neat and newly done.
A servant opened the door. Her face broke into welcome. "Mr. Howard and your bride!" she said. "Oh, the doctor will be glad. I'll tell him."
She went briskly down the hall to tap on a door toward the back of the house. Francis was whispering in Mathilda's ear, saying that the servant had been a witness. To their wedding, he meant. Mathilda couldn't speak.
She felt the quiet of the house oppressing her. The very cleanliness, the spotless carpet, the shining wood of the stair banister, the faint smell of polish and soap, seemed inhuman and frightening. Somebody spoke from above.
A tiny elderly woman with soft, faded skin and faded blue eyes was standing on the stairs. "My dear," she said in a lady's voice, "we read in the papers that you were safe. How very kind and thoughtful of you to come."
The strange woman came all the way down into the hall and her hands touched Mathilda's. Her tiny hands were ice cold.
Francis said, apologetically, "She's been through a good deal, Mrs. White."
The woman's eyes narrowed. They looked at Francis very intently, very searchingly. They seemed to cling to his face, to pull away reluctantly at last. She whispered, "Poor child."
"She would like to see Doctor White," said Francis, and Mathilda had a strong sense that he was suffering.
"Of course," the woman murmured. They followed her in the track of the servant, who had vanished. This woman tapped, too. on the same door, and then she opened it. For a moment Mathilda could sec only the outline of a man sitting behind a desk. He rose.
He said in a soft, powerful voice, "My dear Mrs. Howard—" He, too, came and touched both her hands.
Mathilda clutched. She was frightened. She found her fingers twined around his big hands as if she had been a child. She said, "I would like to talk to you by myself, please."
"Why, of course," he said with a certain tenderness. "Please, Hilda."
When they were alone, Mathilda said, "Doctor White, you aren't going to tell me that you performed any marriage . . . that I am the girl you married to—to Mr. Howard? Are you?"
His heavy brows lifted. "I am not likely to forget your face," he said. His eyes did not falter or change his odd look of sorrow. "You have a very beautiful face, my dear."
Mathilda was unbalanced a moment by such a strange and unexpected compliment to her appearance. Then she cried, "But I'm not the girl! If there was a girl! He's been trying to convince me, but I've never seen him before! I've never seen you! It isn't true! Please!"
He drew a book toward him and showed her the page. She saw the names again: John Francis Howard. Mary Frazier, written in her own hand. "No," she cried. She sank back in the chair and put her hands to her eyes.
"You are confused," said the minister in his soft, mellow voice. "That is a terrible feeling. I know. Won't you have faith that all will come clear to you in a while?"
She looked at him, startled. What was he trying to tell her? That she was mad?
"Try not to—dwell on it," he went on, with difficulty. "I don't think you can doubt your own
Althea made a slow, wide circle with the mop. "They'll be here for dinner," she remarked. It wasn't a question. It wasn't a comment. It was as if the thought in her mind had got expressed accidentally.
"Flowers!" cried Grandy.
"Let Jane do the flowers," Althea said. Tm just out of a sickbed. I decline to get my feet wet."
"The rain is only in your sulky little heart," said Grandy lightly.
Oliver, standing in the arch, asked suspiciously, "What rain? Whose heart?"
The minister's house was one of those city brownstones with a high stoop and a double-doored entry. The white lace curtains were spotless and crisp. The paint around the window frames was neat and newly done.
A servant opened the door. Her face broke into welcome. "Mr. Howard and your bride!" she said. "Oh, the doctor will be glad. I'll tell him."
She went briskly down the hall to tap on a door toward the back of the house. Francis was whispering in Mathilda's ear, saying that the servant had been a witness. To their wedding, he meant. Mathilda couldn't speak.
She felt the quiet of the house oppressing her. The very cleanliness, the spotless carpet, the shining wood of the stair banister, the faint smell of polish and soap, seemed inhuman and frightening. Somebody spoke from above.
A tiny elderly woman with soft, faded skin and faded blue eyes was standing on the stairs. "My dear," she said in a lady's voice, "we read in the papers that you were safe. How very kind and thoughtful of you to come."
The strange woman came all the way down into the hall and her hands touched Mathilda's. Her tiny hands were ice cold.
Francis said, apologetically, "She's been through a good deal, Mrs. White."
The woman's eyes narrowed. They looked at Francis very intently, very searchingly. They seemed to cling to his face, to pull away reluctantly at last. She whispered, "Poor child."
"She would like to see Doctor White," said Francis, and Mathilda had a strong sense that he was suffering.
"Of course," the woman murmured. They followed her in the track of the servant, who had vanished. This woman tapped, too. on the same door, and then she opened it. For a moment Mathilda could sec only the outline of a man sitting behind a desk. He rose.
He said in a soft, powerful voice, "My dear Mrs. Howard—" He, too, came and touched both her hands.
Mathilda clutched. She was frightened. She found her fingers twined around his big hands as if she had been a child. She said, "I would like to talk to you by myself, please."
"Why, of course," he said with a certain tenderness. "Please, Hilda."
When they were alone, Mathilda said, "Doctor White, you aren't going to tell me that you performed any marriage . . . that I am the girl you married to—to Mr. Howard? Are you?"
His heavy brows lifted. "I am not likely to forget your face," he said. His eyes did not falter or change his odd look of sorrow. "You have a very beautiful face, my dear."
Mathilda was unbalanced a moment by such a strange and unexpected compliment to her appearance. Then she cried, "But I'm not the girl! If there was a girl! He's been trying to convince me, but I've never seen him before! I've never seen you! It isn't true! Please!"
He drew a book toward him and showed her the page. She saw the names again: John Francis Howard. Mary Frazier, written in her own hand. "No," she cried. She sank back in the chair and put her hands to her eyes.
"You are confused," said the minister in his soft, mellow voice. "That is a terrible feeling. I know. Won't you have faith that all will come clear to you in a while?"
She looked at him, startled. What was he trying to tell her? That she was mad?
"Try not to—dwell on it," he went on, with difficulty. "I don't think you can doubt your own
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