“Gee whiz!” ejaculated the American. “And is that Mrs. Phillimore?”
“You have heard of her?” Steadman questioned.
“Reckon I have,” Carnthwacke assented, “and seen her too. Though it don't seem to me she was called Phillimore then.”
“Before she was married perhaps,” suggested Steadman.
“Perhaps,” drawled the American. “Anyway I have glimpsed the lady somewhere. Americans mostly know one another by sight you know,” a faint twinkle in his eye as he glanced over his wife's head at the barrister.
When Steadman went back to the dining-room Mrs. Bechcombe was lying back in her chair apparently in a state of collapse. Mrs. Phillimore was bending over her, looking very little better herself. All her little butterfly airs and graces had fallen from her. Her make-up could not disguise the extreme pallor of her cheeks, the great blue eyes were full of horror and of dread. She was trying to persuade Mrs. Bechcombe to drink a glass of wine which Mr. Collyer had poured out for her.
But as Steadman re-entered the room Mrs. Bechcombe sprang up, pushing Mrs. Phillimore aside and throwing the wine over the table cloth.
“Have you let her go?”
Steadman looked at her.
“Control yourself, my dear Madeline. Let who go?”