CHAPTER XIII
WHEN I entered the room I had no intention of engaging in a slanging match. I had telephoned my coming and her sister was awaiting me. I felt almost sorry for the girl standing beside the bed, her eyes meeting mine uncertainly, her lips forcing a greeting.
"Won't you sit down? Fannie, here is Mrs. Hartley...."
The woman in the bed turned and raised herself on her elbow. Her face was swollen, the lips blue and loose, and her eyes had the look of watery gelatine. Without meeting my eyes, she moaned theatrically and buried her face in the pillows.
"What—what must you think of me?" she whined.
"I think you're a fool!" slipped out before I could prevent it.
"All women are fools—we're all fools over some man," she exclaimed, pounding the pillows with her fist and working herself up to a Zazaesque brand of hysteria.
"Mrs. F., I did not come here to listen to a dissertation on the sex-question nor to hold your hand while you have a fit of nerves. You've got to pull yourself together or I'll wash my hands of the whole affair. I've come all the way from New York to help you out of a nasty, a dirty scrape. If you wish to hear what I have to say you'll stop that silliness and act like a full-grown woman with a modicum of discretion.... Your husband is apt to walk in at any moment and it may be well for all concerned that we arrive at some plan of defence."
Her sister, who had retired to a corner of the room behind me when I sat down, now crossed to the bedside.
"Mrs. Hartley is right, Fannie—Frank is liable to show up at any minute."