“Then come into the library and tell us about it quiet,” interrupted Caleb, “unless maybe you’re aiming to call in the servants later for advice.”
The footman behind Mrs. Conover, at the door, tried to look as though he had heard nothing, and bitterly regretted he had not been allowed to hear more. But Letty was silenced as she always was when the Railroader adopted his present tone. She obediently scuttled down the hall toward the library, an open letter fluttering in her hand. Caleb followed; and, at a word from his father, Gerald accompanied his parents.
As soon as the library door closed behind the trio, Mrs. Conover’s grief again rose from subdued sniffling to unchecked tears.
“Oh, talk out, can’t you!” growled Conover. “What’s up? That letter there? Is——?”
“Yes,” gurgled poor Letty, torn between the luxury of weeping and the fear of offending Caleb, “it’s—it’s from Blanche at Lake Como, and—and—Oh, she isn’t married at all—and——!”
“WHAT?” roared Conover. Even Gerald dropped his cigarette.
“It’s—it’s true, Caleb!” wailed Letty. “She isn’t. And——”
“What are you blithering about? Here!”
Conover snatched the letter and glanced over it. Then with a snort he thrust it back into his wife’s hand.
“French!” he sniffed, in withering contempt. “Why in hell can’t the girl write her own language, so folks can understand what she’s——?”