Ingram’s eyes. “Oh, you’d much better leave her alone.”

            “But she’s always with you; and I don’t want to leave you alone.”

            Mrs. Ingram smiled, and then sighed. “We shall be going soon now.”

            “And then Miss Wilpert will be rid of me?”

            Mrs. Ingram looked at me quickly; her eyes were plaintive, almost entreating. “I shall never leave her; she’s been like a—a sister to me,” she murmured, answering a question I had not put.

            The word startled me; and I noticed that Mrs. Ingram had hesitated a moment before pronouncing it. A sister to her—that coarse red-handed woman? The words sounded as if they had been spoken by rote. I saw at once that they did not express the speaker’s real feeling, and that, whatever that was, she did not mean to let me find it out.

            Some of the bridge-players with whom Miss Wilpert consorted were coming toward us, and I stood up to leave. “Don’t let Miss Wilpert carry you off on my account. I promise you I’ll keep out of her way,” I said, laughing.

            Mrs. Ingram straightened herself almost imperiously. “I’m not at Miss Wilpert’s orders; she can’t take me away from any place I choose to stay in,” she said; but a moment later, lowering her voice, she breathed to me quickly: “Go now; I see her coming.”

              

 

 III.
 
 

            I don’t mind telling you that I was not altogether happy about my attitude toward Mrs. Ingram. I’m not given to prying into other people’s secrets; yet I had not scrupled to try to trap her into revealing hers. For that there was a secret I was now convinced; and I excused myself for trying to get to the bottom of it by the fact that I was sure I should find Miss Wilpert there, and that the idea was abhorrent to me. The relation between the two women, I had by now discovered, was one of mutual animosity; not the kind of animosity which may be the disguise of more complicated sentiments, but the simple incompatibility that was bound to exist between two women so different in class and character. Miss Wilpert was a coarse, uneducated woman, with, as far as I could see, no redeeming qualities, moral or mental, to bridge the distance between herself and her companion; and the mystery was that any past tie or obligation, however strong, should have made Mrs. Ingram tolerate her.

            I knew how easily rich and idle women may become dependent on some vulgar tyrannical house-keeper or companion who renders them services and saves them trouble; but I saw at once that this theory did not explain the situation. On the contrary, it was Miss Wilpert who was dependent on Mrs. Ingram, who looked to her as guide, interpreter, and manager of their strange association. Miss Wilpert possessed no language but her own, and of that only a local vernacular which made it difficult to explain her wants (and they were many) even to the polyglot servants of a Swiss hotel. Mrs. Ingram spoke a carefully acquired if laborious French, and was conscientiously preparing for a winter in Naples by taking a daily lesson in Italian; and I noticed that whenever an order was to be given, an excursion planned, or any slight change effected in the day’s arrangements, Miss Wilpert, suddenly embarrassed and helpless, always waited for Mrs. Ingram to interpret for her. It was obvious, therefore, that she was a burden and not a help to her employer, and that I must look deeper to discover the nature of their bond.

            Mrs. Ingram, guide-book in hand, appealed to me one day about their autumn plans. “I think we shall be leaving next week; and they say here we ought not to miss the Italian lakes.”

            “Leaving next week? But why? The lakes are not at their best till after the middle of September. You’ll find them very stuffy after this high air.”

            Mrs. Ingram sighed. “Cassie’s tired of it here. She says she doesn’t like the people.”

            I looked at her, and then ventured with a smile: “Don’t you mean that she doesn’t like me?”

            “I don’t see why you think that—”

            “Well, I daresay it sounds rather fatuous. But you do know why I think it; and you think it yourself.” I hesitated a moment, and then went on, lowering my voice: “Since you attach such importance to Miss Wilpert’s opinions, it’s natural I should want to know why she dislikes seeing me with you.”

            Mrs. Ingram looked at me helplessly. “Well, if she doesn’t like you—”

            “Yes; but in reality I don’t think it’s me she dislikes, but the fact of my being with you.”

            She looked disturbed at this. “But if she dislikes you, it’s natural she shouldn’t want you to be with me.”

            “And do her likes and dislikes regulate all your friendships?”

            “Friendships? I’ve so few; I know hardly any one,” said Mrs. Ingram, looking away.

            “You’d have as many as you chose if she’d let you,” I broke out angrily.

            She drew herself up with the air of dignity she could assume on occasion. “I don’t know why you find so much pleasure in saying disagreeable things to me about my—my friend.”

            The answer rushed to my lips: “Why did she begin by saying disagreeable things about me?”—but just in time I saw that I was on the brink of a futile wrangle with the woman whom, at that moment, I was the most anxious not to displease. How anxious, indeed, I now saw for the first time, in the light of my own anger.