Miss Williams regarded her fair cousin furtively the moment she finished reading. Rose's face was deadly pale, and her white hands became clinched until the blood seemed ready to burst through the pink nails.
"August was no better than the rest of the men, Rose. You can't trust one of them out of your sight."
A sigh alone answered her.
"I never thought much of that man, Rose. You remembered, I told you once that there was a look about his eyes that reminded me of the criminal who murdered his wife down in New Hampshire. I never could forget that man. I shudder now when I think of it."
"Hush, Janet."
"But it wasn't your fault, of course, you are so young and inexperienced. Now, as for me, I can see through a man in an instant; its a sort of intuition that some women possess, thus making them wiser than their companions. I always expected to hear something bad of that love of yours."
Rose came to her feet.
"Now, coz, don't get your back up"—But Rose Alstine paid no heed to the injunction of her tormenting cousin; she rushed from the room, and, speeding up stairs, locked herself in her own cozy chamber, there to combat her grief as best she could.
She did not descend until a late hour in the evening, and even then there were ominous red lines about her eyes, indicating that she had been weeping.
A jingle at the door-bell sent one of the servants to answer it.