It happened in this way:
Supper was over, and I was cleaning up, when an automobile came to the
door. It was Alma's car. The chauffeur gave me a note:
"DEAR MRS PITMAN--I am not at all well, and very anxious. Will
you come to see me at once? My mother is out to dinner, and I am
alone. The car will bring you. Cordially,
"LIDA HARVEY."
I put on my best dress at once and got into the limousine. Half the
neighborhood was out watching. I leaned back in the upholstered seat,
fairly quivering with excitement. This was Alma's car; that was Alma's
card-case; the little clock had her monogram on it. Even the flowers
in the flower holder, yellow tulips, reminded me of Alma--a trifle
showy, but good to look at! And I was going to her house!
I was not taken to the main entrance, but to a side door. The queer
dream-like feeling was still there. In this back hall, relegated from
the more conspicuous part of the house, there were even pieces of
furniture from the old home, and my father's picture, in an oval gilt
frame, hung over my head.
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