“Because, ma’am, I happen to know that you are a writer. A gentleman that comes here sometimes, he gave me one of your books once, and oh, I do like it so! I got him to write my name in it, and who it was from! So I got his too. May I bring it out and show you?” With the gracious permission of the authoress Jane Anne fetched the book. It was Egidia’s last novel but one, and on the flyleaf was Edmund Rivers’ signature. The book had the peculiar sodden appearance of a volume much and carefully read. “The gentleman gave me lots of books,” Jane Anne went on. “And I have read them all over--hundreds of times. But I like none so much as this. I am so fond of novels! And if it was one written about here, why then I should like it all the better.” “But this is such a very quiet place. I should not think that anything ever could happen here?” “Oh, ma’am, don’t be too sure! Last summer now, something happened here, that if you was to put it into a book, no one would believe it! And I am in it too--leastways I shall be!” “Tell me about it, if you have time,” said Egidia, “and then perhaps I could work it into something.” “It is something very serious,” said Jane Anne, her heavy brows coming together. “It is a divorce case. I don’t know as I ought to tell it.” “A divorce case is known eventually to all the world!” said Egidia sententiously. “Besides, you need not tell me the names!” “Oh, no, I needn’t then,” said the girl, relieved, “but they are sure to slip out in the course of conversation. But then that won’t be my fault, will it?” “No,” said the other, concealing her amusement at Jane Anne’s morality. “It will be mine--I hope. Come and sit down here, if you are not too busy, and tell me about it!” Jane Anne was a little thrown off her majestic balance by the distinguished authoress’s condescension. She sat down, awkward, handsome, interesting even, as a study, but---- “This creature presumes to love Edmund too!” Egidia thought, and hated the mission she had set herself to accomplish, which involved converse, and an assumption of intimacy with her. “You see, ma’am, it is like this,” began Jane Anne, too humble and modestly conscious of the capacity in which this interview had been granted her, not to begin on it at once. “There is a gentleman, the gentleman who gave me that book, he comes here every year and paints--he always has done--he is not married, leastways we think not!--he is what they call the co-respondent.” She said correspondent, but it was not her mispronunciation that made Egidia wince. “Well, then,” Jane Anne went on, “last summer there comes a lady--leastwise a very funny lady, to be a lady--to call herself one, I mean--she was a foreigner, with painted cheeks, and something she did to her hair, and she nivver let our Mr. Rivers alone! He didn’t run after her, he really didn’t, but she had made up her mind to have him, and she did. She was married!” “This is very interesting, and extraordinary!” ejaculated Egidia.