I was making up my mind to another attempt at going
when Mrs. Strickland came back. She had dried her eyes and
powdered her nose.
"I'm sorry I broke down," she said. "I'm glad you didn't go away."
She sat down. I did not at all know what to say. I felt a
certain shyness at referring to matters which were no concern
of mine. I did not then know the besetting sin of woman,
the passion to discuss her private affairs with anyone who is
willing to listen. Mrs. Strickland seemed to make an effort
over herself.
"Are people talking about it?" she asked.
I was taken aback by her assumption that I knew all about her
domestic misfortune.
"I've only just come back. The only person I've seen is Rose
Waterford."
Mrs. Strickland clasped her hands.
"Tell me exactly what she said." And when I hesitated,
she insisted. "I particularly want to know."
"You know the way people talk. She's not very reliable, is
she? She said your husband had left you."
"Is that all?"
I did not choose to repeat Rose Waterford's parting reference
to a girl from a tea-shop. I lied.
"She didn't say anything about his going with anyone?"
"No.
Pages:
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65