When he had finished he began to stammer out his
thanks.
"No," she said, rising decisively. "You are too weak to
talk to me to-night, Mr. Waldeaux. The coupe is at the
door. John will drive you home. You need sleep now."
As he sank down into the luxurious cushions and drove
away through the twilight, he saw the little white figure
in the door, and the grave wistful face looking after
him.
"Did she suspect!" he suddenly cried, starting up.
But George Waldeaux never knew how much Lucy suspected
that night.
Meanwhile Mrs. Waldeaux's mare had jogged on leisurely,
dragging her mistress and Miss Vance home through the
shady country lanes.
"Phebe is old," apologized Frances. "She really is a
retired car horse."
"You used to take pride in your horses, Frances?"
"Yes." Mrs. Waldeaux added after a pause. "My income is
small. Of course George soon will be coining money, but
just now---- The peach crop failed this year too. And
I save every dollar for Jack's education."
"But what of the jokes for the New York paper? They were
profitable."
"Oh, I gave them up long ago." She glanced around
cautiously. "Never speak of that, Clara. I would not
have George know for the world; I never would hold up my
head if he knew that I was `Quigg.'"
Miss Vance gave a contemptuous sniff, but Mrs. Waldeaux
went on eagerly, "I have a plan! You know that
swampy tract of ours near Lewes? When I have enough
money I'll drain it and lay out a summer
resort--hotels--cottages.
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