Letitia turned upon me with cheeks aflame. Her indignation was cyclonic. Suddenly, as she gazed upon my helplessness—for she was a girl of moods—her fury seemed to disperse itself. Gradually a reflective look appeared in her eyes. She grew singularly calm. Presently, as I said nothing, she simply stood still, and looked at me, musingly.
"You can easily ask her," I said weakly and huskily, "if—if—she is married."
"Ask her?" cried Letitia, aghast. "Not for the world would I do so. How terribly angry with myself I should feel, if she were married, and how horribly angry with her if she were not! Don't you see that it is impossible? It is too awful to contemplate. Perhaps—perhaps—you wouldn't mind asking her."
"Letitia!" I exclaimed, shocked.
"Oh," Letitia gurgled, in tears. "It is quite too wicked to think about! Why—why—did we have that horrid man up to dinner? Poor Olga! She is a good, kind woman. Yesterday, when I had a splitting headache, she bathed my forehead with eau de cologne. Aunt Julia herself couldn't have been kinder. I can't believe—"
"But, my girl," I said sympathetically, "if she has a husband, she has surely committed no crime. What Tamworth suggests is—er—pardonable, under those circumstances. We merely want to know. Don't you see—"
"Oh, I see," she cried pettishly, "of course I see. Seeing does not help me at all. You want me to catechize the woman because you are afraid to do so. Men are such cowards. Perhaps she will sue me for libel, if I ask her such questions. I shouldn't complain. I deserve to be sued for libel. I feel like suing myself. And—and—you are quite safe, because you can always say that it isn't the thing for you to interfere in such matters."
"We really ought to have guessed—"
"You really ought to have guessed," she declared unreasonably. "You are six years older than I am. You are a man of the world. Anyway"—triumphantly—"it may not be true. And if I ever find that it isn't, I'll go right down to Mr. Tamworth and tell him what I think of him, in his own office, before all his clerks and typewriters—and yours. He must be a horrible ninny. Really, I wouldn't dare to have such a man around if—if—"