“Never.”

“Well, you never listen to half I say.  And how was I to know that Doctor Callandar was the Harry Chedridge I used to know?  He took the name of Callandar from an uncle—­or something.  Anyway it isn’t his own.”

Esther hulled a particularly fine berry and carefully putting the hull in the pan, threw the berry away.

“Curiouser and curiouser!” she said, quoting the immortal Alice.  “Did you recognise him at once?”

If it be possible for a lady of this enlightened age to simper, Mrs. Coombe simpered.  “He recognised me at once!” with faint emphasis on the pronouns.

The girl choked down a rising inclination to laugh.

“Why shouldn’t he?  I suppose you haven’t changed very much.”

“Hardly at all, he says; at least he says he would have known me anywhere.  But it’s quite a long time, you know, terribly long.  I was a young girl then.  Naturally, he was much older.”

“I should have thought so.  That’s why it seems queer—­your having been schoolmates.”

Mrs. Coombe looked cross.  “I did not mean schoolmates in that sense.”

“Oh, merely in a Pickwickian sense!” Esther’s laugh bubbled out.

Mary arose.  She was afraid to risk more at present, until she had been to her room and—­rested awhile.  “You are rude, as usual,” she said with dignity.  “When I said that Dr. Callandar and I were schoolmates I meant simply that we were old friends, that we knew each other when we were both younger.  I do not see anything at all humorous in the statement.”

“No, of course not!” with quick compunction.  “It’s quite lovely.  Just like a book.  Why didn’t he come in?”

The question was so cleverly casual that no one could have guessed the girl’s consuming interest in the answer.  But its cleverness had overshot the mark, for so colourless was the tone in which it was asked that Mary did not notice it at all.  Instead she retreated steadily along her own line.

“I hope I always treat your friends with proper courtesy, Esther.  And I shall expect you to do the same with mine.  Dr. Callandar is a very old friend indeed.  Should he call to-night I wish you to receive him as such.”

“I’ll try,” said the girl demurely.

The way of escape was now open, but Mrs. Coombe hesitated.  She seemed to have something else to say.  Something which did not come easily.  “It’s horrid living in a town like Coombe,” she burst out.  “People always want to know everything.  We met the elder Miss Sinclair on the river road—­you know what that means!  If people ask you any question—­or anything—­you had better tell them at once that Dr. Callandar is not a stranger.”

“I should not dream of suppressing the fact.”

“You see,” again that odd hesitation, “he may call—­rather often.  And—­people talk so easily.”

Despite her care, Esther’s sensitive face flamed in answer to the quickened beat of her heart.  What an odd thing for her mother to say!  What did she mean?  Was it possible that he had already told her—­asked her?  Or had she merely guessed?  There was a moment’s pause, and then, “Let them talk!” said the girl softly.  “It can’t make any difference, to them, how often Dr. Callandar calls.”