Glancing idly up at her own window as they had swung round the corner she had seen a strange thing. She had looked forward to an explanation. ” “It was a delightful piece of good fortune that I should have met you,” he answered. " "And all the time you loved her?"—appalled. "Aye—to pretend to her that you don't care. My mother, I'm sure, didn't intend to hurt your feelings. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford.
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