The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. It was then for the first time she remembered that she had said nothing to her sister of the man in the hospital. He did not even reply to her for several minutes. “It’s funny, the way a good house feels. She was fiercely and bitterly jealous. She could not make up her mind which was the finer, more elemental thing, which gave its values to the other. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging.
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