If her eyes were restless, her hands were restless too and she kept snapping the catch of her hand-bag with an irritating click as she spoke.

“I know I ought to have been here when the doctor called to see Amy,” she went on, “but I could not get away.  Mrs. Lewis talked and talked.  That woman is worse than Tennyson’s brook.  She makes me want to scream!  I wonder,” musingly, “what would happen if I should jump up some day and scream and scream?  I think I’ll try it.”

“Do!”

“What did Doctor Paragon-what’s-his-name say about Amy?”

“He thinks we have been treating Aunt Amy wrongly.  He thinks she should be humoured more.  His name is Callandar.”

“Callandar?  What an odd name!  It sounds half-familiar.  I must have heard it somewhere.  There is a Dr. Callandar in Montreal, isn’t there?  A specialist or something.”

“I think this is the same man.  But if it is he, doesn’t want it known.  He is here for his health, and he has never taken the trouble to correct the impression that he is a beginner working up a practice.  I thought so myself at first.”

“At first?”

“When I first saw him.  I have met him several times.”

Mrs. Coombe was evidently not sufficiently interested to pursue the subject.  “Whoever he is,” she said fretfully, “I hope he is not going to allow Amy to fancy herself an invalid.”

“He is going to cure the fancy.”

“Oh!” dubiously.  “Well, I hope he does!  I find I must run over to Detroit for a few days.”

“What?”

“It would be provoking to have her ill while I’m away.  No one else can manage Jane properly while you’re at school.  Where is Jane?”

“I don’t know.  You are not speaking seriously, are you?”

“I certainly am.  At a pinch I suppose I could take Jane with me.  She needs new clothes.  But I’d rather not bother with her.  Her measure will do quite as well.  I wish you would call her.  I’ve got some butterscotch somewhere.  Here it is.”  The restless hands fumbled in the hand-bag.  “No, it isn’t here, how odd!  I promised Jane—­”

“Mother, when did you decide to go away?”

“Some time ago.  It doesn’t matter, does it?  I had a letter from Jessica Bremner to-day.  She asks me to come at once.  It’s in this bag somewhere.  I declare I never can find anything!  Anyway, she wants me to come.”

“When did you get the letter?”

“On the noon mail, of course.”

Esther turned away.  She knew very well that there had been no letter from Detroit on the noon mail.  But there seemed no use in saying so.  These little “inaccuracies” were becoming common enough.  At first Esther had exposed and laughed at them as merely humorous mistakes; but that attitude had long been replaced by a cold disgust which did not scruple to call things by their right names.  She knew very well that Mary Coombe had developed the habit of lying.