for this from the first. She had never really believed that Waldo could survive for any considerable time far from the comforts and luxuries of his Boston home and the watchful care of herself.
“And who is this—ah—person?” she asked coldly at last, holding her pince-nez before her eyes as with elevated brows she cast a look of disapproval upon Nadara.
The girl, reading more in the older woman’s manner than her words, drew herself up proudly. Mr. Smith-Jones coughed and colored. He stepped to Nadara’s side, placing his arm about her shoulders.
“She loved Waldo,” he said simply.
“The brazen huzzy!” exclaimed Mrs. Smith-Jones. “To dare to love a Smith-Jones!”
“Come, come, Louisa!” ejaculated her husband. “Remember that she too is suffering—do not add to her sorrow. She loved our boy, and he returned her love.”
“How do you know that?”
“She has told me,” replied the man.
“It is not true,” cried Mrs. Smith-Jones. “It is not true! Waldo Emerson would never stoop to love one out of his own high class. Who is she, and what proof have you that Waldo loved her?”
“I am Nadara,” said the girl proudly, answering for herself, “and this is the proof that he loved
