He snorted disapproval. To his mind, as to the majority of village minds, there was no more object in discarding one’s coherent language to speak another than to shave off one’s hair and adopt a wig.
“How is Lorraine?” Thurley studied the barn floor.
“Too good to be true.” Ali Baba stood up and started to examine an old strap. “Her pa is prouder of her every minnit ... she’s made Dan a fine wife—had me up for supper and treated me as fine as silk.... Dan’s a great lad.” He became engrossed in opening the buckle.
Thurley slipped away. Later, Ali Baba told Betsey,
“Opery singers or no opery singers, women is all alike. If they give a fellow the mitten, they just can’t help comin’ back to see how he’s wearin’ it!”
Dan was in South Wales the day Thurley arrived. When he returned to the Corners a week later, the town was chattering with new gusto, but he learned the news from Lorraine herself,—from Lorraine, who had been trying to gain courage enough to call on Thurley and blot out memories of that hidden magazine and the unproved yet strong impression that Dan had not confined himself to magazine pictures of Thurley. Just wherein lay his infidelity she did not know; she shrank as do women of her makeup from ever discovering!
Dan came in buoyantly to waltz her around as was his custom, telling of his success with this man and that and plans for the branch store.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, realizing that she was not dimpling with happiness and nodding approbation at every sentence he spoke.
Lorraine disengaged herself from his arm and stood back, twisting her apron nervously. “The town has something new to talk about, Dan. Who do you think is back for the summer?” laughing nervously.
“I don’t know. Who ever comes back here?”
“Miss Clergy—and Thurley.” It was a relief now her name was spoken. “They’ve reopened the Fincherie, and Thurley has a maid and chauffeur and about eight trunks—so Ali Baba says.”
Dan whistled softly. “What do you think of that?” was his sole comment.
“I suppose I ought to call on her,” Lorraine continued bravely, “although she may not care to know any one of us now. She’s so famous and changed! Ali Baba says she smokes and paints her face and the lady’s maid is prettier than any one in the village. She had her piano shipped from New York and an accompanist besides! Do you think I ought to call?” Lorraine’s little face was wrinkled anxiously.