"Oh, yes, of course! He told her afterward that he was so much impressed with her refinement and distinction. I suppose she did look well, standing up on the platform in a white dress. And her voice is charming. He walked home with her that night and they were married three weeks later. Of course, as she says, she didn’t really know him at all; and he turned out to be perfectly dreadful. She went through the greatest misery with him. He was killed in an accident; he was in a taxi with some chorus-girl. I don’t really know much about him; she doesn’t like to talk about him, but I’ve seen a picture of him. He _was_ handsome, but coarse, I think. He was quite successful in his business, whatever it was, but he spent all he made, and only left her a tiny little income. She made it do, though, she lived so quietly." Angelica was delighted to get all this information. She leaned against the doorway in one of her careless, beautiful gamine attitudes, her dark eyes on Mrs. Russell’s face with an attention that pleased that veteran gossip. "She’s a charming woman. Still, I was amazed at Vincent, of all people! She’s so much older than he--years, and she shows it. Of course, when they were first married three years ago, she was quite different--much nicer-looking. Poor soul! She really had a wretched time with Vincent. He’s frightfully trying. I really think she’s been wonderfully patient with him. I’ll never forget the day he came into my room and told me he was married. I couldn’t believe it; he’s so fickle and erratic. I never expected him to settle down. I don’t suppose he really has. And when I saw her--simply a plainly dressed woman of thirty-five! Of course, she has a certain sort of charm about her; she’s _restful_. I like being with her--but not all the time. I can’t understand why she clings to me so. She’s so self-reliant." How indeed was Mrs. Russell to understand all this? She with her thistledown heart, her life of infantile amusement-seeking, to understand the solitude of this woman from a small town, accustomed to the friendly faces of neighbors, of people who had known her all her life and were interested in all that concerned her; this woman who had twice given her love with simplicity and generosity, to have it twice despised, a wife without a husband, a mother bereft of her child? Polly hadn’t a soul near her who took the least interest in her, _no one to talk to_. That was what made her so silent. She didn’t, she couldn’t utter flippancies; she longed for one of her own good, earnest, kindly small-town women, who would wish to listen and know how to console. And in default of this, then she must have Mrs. Russell, who could at least talk about her lost child. She could say to her, "Do you remember this day and that day, this that he said, and how he looked?"