She was relieved when the concert was over, but lingered at her seat until the crowd had surged by; it made Linda furious to be shoved or indiscriminately touched. Judith had gone ahead, when Linda was conscious of the scrutiny of a pale well-dressed woman of middle age. It became evident that the other was debating whether or not to speak; clearly such an action was distasteful to her; and Linda had turned away before a restrained voice addressed her: “You will have to forgive me if I ask your name ... because of a certain resemblance. Seeing you I--I couldn't let you go.” “Linda Condon,” she replied. The elder, Linda saw, grew even paler. She put out a gloved hand. “Then I was right,” she said in a slightly unsteady voice. “But perhaps, when I explain, you will think it even stranger, inexcusable. My dear child, I am your father's sister.” Linda was invaded by a surprise equally made up of interest and resentment. The first was her own and the second largely borrowed from her mother. Besides, why had her father's family never made the slightest effort to see her. This evidently had simultaneously occurred to the other. “Of course,” she added, quite properly, “we can't undertake family questions here. I shouldn't blame you a bit, either, if you went directly away. I had to speak, to risk that, because you were so unmistakably a Lowrie. It is not a common appearance. We--I--” she floundered for a painful moment; then she gathered herself with a considerable dignity. “Seeing you has affected me tremendously, changed everything. I have nothing to say in our defense, you must understand that. I am certain, too, that my sister will feel the same--we live together in Philadelphia. I hope you will give me your address and let us write to you. Elouise will join with me absolutely.” Linda told her evenly where she lived, and then allowed Miss Lowrie to precede her toward the entrance. She said nothing of this to Judith, nor, momentarily, to her mother. She wanted to consider it undisturbed by a flood of talk and blame. It was evident to her that the Lowries had behaved very badly, but just how she couldn't make out. She recalled her father's sister--her aunt--minutely, forced to the realization that she was a person of entire superiority. Here, she suddenly saw, had been the cause of all their difficulties--the Lowries hadn't approved of the marriage, they had objected to her mother. Five years ago she would have been incensed at this; but now, essentially, she was without personal indignation. She wanted, for herself, to discover as much as possible about her father and his family. A need independent of maternal influences stirred her. Linda was reassured by the fact that her father had been gently born; while she realized that she had always taken this for granted. Her mother must know nothing about the meeting with Miss Lowrie until the latter had written.