“She was absolutely disconcerted. Her face just seemed to go all to pieces;—it didn’t look like _her_ face at all. She was frightened to death, and I never saw anything plainer. That’s one reason she hates me so—because I saw her looking so afraid of me and she couldn’t help it. Of course, as soon as I got into the house I looked out through the lace curtains at a window—you could hardly expect me not to—and I saw her just going back into her own house by the side door. She’d braced up and looked all stained-glass Joan of Arc again by that time.” Mr. Dodge sat waggling his head and muttering in wonder. “Of all the curious things!” he said. “Human nature is so everlastingly full of oddities it’s always turning up new ones that you sit and stare at and can’t believe are real. There they are, right before your eyes, and yet they’re incredible. What did she say to the chauffeur?” “No, no,” Mrs. Dodge said, reprovingly. “That’s what I _can’t_ tell you.” And she added, “I should think you could guess it, anyhow.” “Was there——” He paused a moment, pondering. “Did she use any specially marked terms of endearment in addressing him?” “No,” Mrs. Dodge replied, returning her attention to her work;—“not terms.” “Oh,” he said. “Just one term, then. She used a single term of endearment in addressing him. Is that correct?” Again Mrs. Dodge became musical: she hummed a cheerful tune, but her face was overcast with a dour solemnity. “So she did!” her husband exclaimed. “Did she call him ‘dear’?” “No, she didn’t.” “‘Dearest’?” “No, she didn’t.” “Not,” he said, incredulously, “not—‘_darling_’?” Mrs. Dodge instantly resumed her humming. “By George!” her husband cried. “Why, that’s just awful! What else did she say to him besides calling him ‘darling’?” “I didn’t say she said anything else,” Mrs. Dodge returned, primly. “The rest wasn’t so important, anyhow, and she was speaking in a low voice. I thought the rest of it was, ‘Rosemary, that’s for remembrance.’ I couldn’t be sure because I didn’t hear it distinctly.” “But you _did_ distinctly hear her call him ‘darling’?” “What I heard distinctly,” Mrs. Dodge replied, “I heard distinctly.” “So what Mrs. Leslie Braithwaite said to the chauffeur was this: ‘Rosemary, that’s for remembrance, darling’?” “You must draw your own conclusions,” she advised him, severely. “I do—rather!” he returned, and in a marvelling tone slowly pronounced their neighbour’s name, “Mrs. Leslie Braithwaite! Of all the women in the world, Mrs. Leslie Braithwaite! And when you rose up, and she saw you, she just went all to pieces and didn’t say a word?” “I told you.” “What did the handsome chauffeur do?” “Just stood there.” “It’s beyond anything!” Mr. Dodge’s amazement was not abated;—he shook his head and uttered groaning sounds of pessimistic wonderment. “I suppose the true meaning of the saying, ‘It’s the unexpected that happens,’ is that life is always teaching us to accept the incredible. How long ago was it?”