“Yanna! Rose told me that she was going to the matinee with Miss Van Hoosen. I suppose she is spending the evening with her also.”
“Rose is at home. She was brought home by Antony Van Hoosen, in a cab. He took her from that fellow Duval. They were taking wine together in a restaurant. Now do you understand?” He spoke with gathering passion, and Mrs. Filmer looked frightened and anxious, but she answered scornfully:
“No, I do not. You must speak more plainly. Is Rose sick? Is she hurt? Why should Mr. Van Hoosen interfere with Miss Filmer?”
“Mother, go and ask Rose ‘why.’ I cannot say what I intended to say. I shall go to father; perhaps I can talk to him, if he will listen to me.”
Mr. Filmer was surrounded by slips of paper which he was arranging with so much absorbing interest that he did not at once look up. But as Harry 151 remained standing before him, he said fretfully: “I have to arrange these data while the facts are fresh in my mind. What do you want, Harry?”
“I want to tell you about Rose, sir. You must put down your data and listen to me. It is the most important duty you have.”
Then the attitude of the elder gentleman changed as quickly as a flash of light. He cast the slips of paper upon the table; his thoughtful countenance became alert; he turned round, faced his son, and asked, sharply: “What do you want to say about your sister?”
Then it was as if some seal had been taken off Harry’s heart and lips. He spoke from the foundations of his being; he said: “Sir, my dear sister is on the way to mortal and immortal ruin; and both you and mother shut your eyes to the fact. I also have refused to see what others see. I have said to myself, when mother speaks, when father speaks, it will be time enough for me to do my part. Sir, Rose takes too much wine; she takes it at improper times, and with improper people. This afternoon Mr. Van Hoosen found her with that nephew of Folletts—you know the man.”
“Richard Duval?”
“Yes, sir.”