“My dear girl!” she cried, running forward, “you are not going to let such a pin-prick hurt you!”
“Oh, Vera,” exclaimed the girl, putting her face down on her friend’s shoulder, “you know! It does hurt. I can’t help it,” and she sobbed.
The three men looked on in puzzled helpless masculinity, and the Swami surveyed the scene as the two women clung to each other.
“Vera,” said Mr. Lenox, “are we permitted to know what this means?” Mrs. Lenox kept her arm around Madeline’s shoulder as she turned.
“It’s only an ugly little fling in the Chatterer, Frank,” she said, “and it sounds as though it might refer to Madeline. It is nothing, but I dare say my dear girl does not enjoy a bit of dirt even on her outer garment. And, Madeline, very likely it is not meant for you.”
“Oh, yes, it is,” cried the girl. “Some one sent me this marked copy. And I went there once when I thought he had invited a crowd to see some tapestries. There was no one else there. There is just so much truth in it.”
“Would you rather that we should not see it?” asked Mr. Lenox.
“I’m afraid every one will see it,” said Madeline shamefacedly, as she held out the guilty pages. The three men leaned their heads over the table with a curiosity that would have done credit to women, while Ram Juna still looked on.
“I have already beheld the writing,” he said suavely. “Mr. Early gave way to unwonted anger when he saw. The lady must have an enemy.”
“That is it,” cried Madeline, turning upon him swiftly. “I think I am not so much hurt by the scandal—every one who knows me will believe better of me—but what cuts is that there should be some one who wants to hurt me. I—I’ve always thought of the world as a friendly place. Who is it that hates me?”