understand—­honi soit qui mal y pense.  Well this autumn the plot thickened; the platonism became less apparent; the friendship more pronounced.  Nothing painfully noticeable—­oh no; the lady is too clever—­still, the gossips began to take a contract, and work on it in slack seasons, and latterly with diligence.  It is openly predicted that madam will seek a divorce, and then!—­we shall see what we shall see.  Cecil looks radiantly worried and sulkily important.  His family are ranged in a solid phalanx of indignant opposition, which of course clinches the matter firmly.  Eva Cumberland was here this morning in a white heat of passion over it, and I believe apoplexy or hydrophobia is imminent for the old lady.  The fact of Mrs. Thorne’s being still a married woman gives the affair a queer look to squeamish mortals, and the Cumberland women are the quintessence of conservative old-fogyism; they might be fresh from the South Carolina woods for all the advancement they can boast.  It’s wicked, and I’m ashamed of myself, but whenever I think of Ethel Thorne trying conclusions with those strait-laced Cumberlands, I’m filled with unholy mirth.”  Then followed belated apologies for this careless handling of a family matter, and copious explanations.  Mrs. Vincent was a wordy woman, fond of writing and apt to be diffuse when not pressed for time.

Thorne returned the letter to his cousin, and announced his intention of returning to New York immediately.

“By using dispatch I can catch the boat at Wintergreen this afternoon,” he said.  “I wish you’d tell your mother, Norma, only your mother, please; it will be time enough to acquaint the others when the whole affair is out.  And, Norma, I can trust you, I know; keep the matter quiet here as long as possible.  These people are strangers; they know nothing.  I don’t want to be in every body’s mouth—­a nine days’ wonder, here as well as in New York.  It will be bad enough there.  Promise me to keep it quiet, Norma.”

Thorne had reasons for the request.  He had ascertained, beyond all doubt, that no hint of his story had as yet reached Pocahontas.  He was surprised at first, for he thought all women gossiped, and the affair had never been a secret.  He did not conceive for a moment, that the fact of his divorce would be a permanent stumbling block in the way of his happiness, but he realized something of the conservatism of her surroundings, and the old world influences and prejudices amid which she had been reared.  She would be shocked and startled at first; she would have to grow accustomed to the idea, then reconciled to it.  He recognized at a glance the immense advantage it would be to him to tell his story himself, and, in his own way, to enlist her sympathy and to arouse her indignation and her partisanship.

The explanation of the girl’s ignorance is simple and natural.  The intercourse between the two families was cordial and frequent, but there were reservations—­tracts of territory which were never trenched on.  There was about the Masons a certain fine reserve which discouraged promiscuous and effusive confidences.  Exhaustive investigation of their neighbors’ affairs had never been their practice; it was a proud family; a conservative family.