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Updated: June 4, 2025
There was something about Prudence's expression she didn't like. Her mind at once reverted to thoughts of fever and sunstroke and such things, but she said nothing that might cause alarm. She merely persisted when the other shook her head. Eventually her persuasions prevailed. "Mother Hephzy's fretting away down-stairs and Sarah is backing her up.
Once convinced that I meant what I said and that I was not "raving distracted," which I think was her first diagnosis of my case, Hephzy's practical mind began to unearth objections, first to her going at all and, second, to going on such short notice. "I don't think I'd better, Hosy," she said.
His wife, a sweet-faced Englishwoman, made Hephzy's acquaintance and Hephzy liked her extremely. "She's as nice as she can be," declared Hephzy. "If it wasn't that she says 'Fancy! and 'Really! instead of 'My gracious! and 'I want to know! I should think I was talking to a Cape Codder, the best kind of one. She's got sense, too. SHE don't ask about 'red Indians' in Bayport."
Having learned and relearned my lesson namely, that I lacked the courage to tell her the truth I had so often declared must be told, having shifted the responsibility to Hephzy's shoulders, having admitted and proclaimed myself, in that respect at least, a yellow dog, I proceeded to take life as I found it, as yellow dogs are supposed to do.
For a week of course I did not know it was a week then my memories consist only of a series of flashes like the memory of the hours immediately following the accident. I remember people talking, but not what they said; I remember her voice, or I think I do, and the touch of her hand on my forehead. And afterward, other voices, Hephzy's in particular.
In consequence, on these occasions, there would be long intervals of silence suddenly broken by Hephzy's bursting out with a surmise concerning what was happening in Bayport, whether they had painted the public library building yet, or how Susanna was getting on with the cat and hens. She had received three letters from Miss Wixon and, as news bearers, they were far from satisfactory.
My passenger was still in the shop. I could not imagine what she was doing there. If it had been a shop of a different kind, and in view of Hephzy's recent statement concerning the buying of clothes, I might have been suspicious.
Her room it was next to Hephzy's, with a connecting door was ready and we led her up the stairs. Mr. and Mrs. Jameson were very kind and sympathetic. They asked surprisingly few questions. "Poor young lady," said Mr. Jameson, when he and I were together in our sitting-room. "She is quite ill, isn't she." "Yes," I admitted. "It is not a serious illness, however.
She seemed to think it so. And yet she seemed more hurt than offended. "You came yes," she said. "And you knew that I left Paris because Oh, you knew that! I asked you not to follow me. You promised you would not." I was ashamed, thoroughly ashamed and disgusted with myself for yielding to Hephzy's entreaties. "No, no," I protested, "I did not promise. I did not promise, Frances."
I might begin at any one of a dozen places with Hephzy's receiving the Raymond and Whitcomb circular; with our arrival in London; with Jim Campbell's visit to me here in Bayport; with the curious way in which the letter reached us, after crossing the ocean twice. Any one of these might serve as a beginning but which? I made I don't know how many attempts, but not one was satisfactory.
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