“The usual things, I suppose. Routine inquiries. He was very pleasant over it all.”
“I suppose he interviewed everyone?”
“I should think so.”
There was another pause.
Anne said:
“Mrs. Lorrimer, do you think—they will ever find out who did it?”
Her eyes were bent on her plate. She did not see the curious expression in the older woman’s eyes as she watched the downcast head.
Mrs. Lorrimer said quietly:
“I don’t know….”
Anne murmured:
“It’s not—very nice, is it?”
There was that same curious appraising and yet sympathetic look on Mrs. Lorrimer’s face, as she asked:
“How old are you, Anne Meredith?”
“I—I?” the girl stammered. “I’m twenty-five.”
“And I’m
sixty-three,” said Mrs. Lorrimer.
She went on slowly:
“Most of your life is in front of you….”
Anne shivered.
“I might be run over by a bus on the way home,” she said.
“Yes, that’s true. And I—might not.”
She said it in an odd way. Anne looked at her in astonishment.
“Life is a difficult business,” said Mrs. Lorrimer. “You’ll know that when you come to my age. It needs infinite courage and a lot of endurance. And in the end one wonders: ‘Was it worthwhile?’”
“Oh, don’t,” said Anne.
Mrs. Lorrimer laughed, her old competent self again.
“It’s rather cheap to say gloomy things about life,” she said.
She called the waitress and settled the bill.
As they got to the shop door a taxi crawled past, and Mrs. Lorrimer hailed it.
“Can I give you a lift?” she asked. “I am going south of the park.”
Anne’s face had lighted up.