piqued her interest. As discreetly as she could, she sought to find out what he referred to but with no success until Mrs. Hunter called at the Daquin home a week or two later and asked to speak to Mimi, alone . Mrs. Daquin, bursting with curiosity, regretfully complied with the suggestion that she absent herself.
As soon as the door closed, Mrs. Hunter explained her mission. She prefaced her story with a disconcerting question.
“Mimi,” she demanded, her eyes fixed on Mimi’s face, “do you love my Carl?”
“Oh, Mrs. Hunter, why do you ask me such a question?” Mimi, startled, parried the query. She was amazed—she had never asked herself so directly the question Carl’s mother had flung at her.
“Don’t be frightened or worried—I was so in hopes you did care for him. His father and I are terribly worried about him—he has always been a restless, queer sort of a