"Helped Jack?—Oh, yes, he had heaps of letters, hadn't he? What were they all about, Mary?"
"Oh, charities."
"Charities?—What charities? How many charities?—I'm interested in that, you know—I'm rather hurt that you didn't ask my advice, too," and Imogen smiled her ominous smile. "What were the charities?"
Mary, crimson to the brow, her eyes on her plate, now did her duty.
"There was only one."
"One—and that of such consequence that Jack had to give up his drive because of it?—what an interesting letter."
"There were other letters, of course," Jack, in aid of his innocent accomplice, struck in. "None that would have particularly interested you, Imogen. I only needed advice about the one, a local Boston affair."
"There were others, Mary," said Imogen, laughing a little, "You needn't look so guilty on Jack's account." Mary gave her a wide, startled stare.
"You see, Mary," said Rose, after lunch in the drawing-room, "saints can sting."
"What was the matter!" Mary murmured, her head still seemed to buzz, as though from a violent box on the ear. "I never heard Imogen speak like that. To hurt one!"