“What are your plans, Mimi? What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know, Aunt Sophie—this thing has come on me so suddenly I’m all upset. I suppose I’ll stay on here as long as I can get along with Mrs. Daquin—”
“Why did Jean marry her? She’s not our sort at all—an estimable woman, I suppose, but—well, she just isn’t the sort—not Margot’s type at all.”
Mimi told her the circumstances of the marriage, of the years of misunderstanding which had followed the union.
“Just like Jean to do a thing like that,” his sister observed when Mimi had finished. “Why stay on here with her? Won’t you go back to New York with me?
“Oh, Aunt Sophie, I’d love to—but I can’t leave Atlanta right now—”
“What’s his name?” Mrs. Rogers demanded with what to Mimi seemed uncanny shrewdness.
“Carl Hunter,” she answered frankly, her face reddening. “You see, he needs me.” And she told the story simply, fully, knowing that her aunt would understand. When she finished, Mrs. Rogers smiled sympathetically.
“I see—I see. But if ever things get unpleasant here, send me a wire and come on to New York. I’ve been pretty lonely since Henry died and I’ve always wanted a daughter. I’d try to make you happy and I don’t think there’s overmuch happiness here for you with Jean’s widow. And up North you’d have a much better chance than here where all you can do is to teach school or get married. The last isn’t bad if you get the right man—but, don’t hurry—a girl with your looks and brains can go a long way if she only keeps her head. …”