“Sapristi! This is getting mysterious and blood-curdling. The latest feuilleton is nothing to it. Must I go to bed without knowing the cause of this escapade? Well, so be it. But let me tell you, young woman, that it wasn’t the thing to do. If you find your husband flirting with some siren, you must lead him off by the ear next time, but don’t sulk. Good night.”
George walked out and shut the door after him.
“See here, Bessie,” I said kindly, “don’t cry, because I want to talk sensibly with you.”
She was sobbing now in good earnest.
“I want you to tell me what your mother said to you about me.”
She couldn’t talk just then, poor little woman! But when she had had her cry partly out, she told me.
Her mother had not told her a word of what had passed between Fred Marston and me! The outraged dignity of the widow would not admit of an explicit account of the unspeakable insult she had received. She had simply given Bessie to understand that I had uttered some unpardonable, infamous slander, and had hustled the poor girl breathlessly into a cab and away, before she fairly realized what had happened.
I then told Bessie what our conversation had been, and left her to judge for herself. I had not the heart to scold her for her part in the French leave-taking, though it made me feel miserable to think how few episodes of such a sort might bring about endless misunderstandings and heart-aches.
Of course more or less talk was caused by the mysterious manner of our several departures from Miss Van’s party; and, thanks to Fred Marston and his wife and similar rattle-pates, it became generally known that there was a skeleton in the Pinkerton closet.
Miss Van soon heard how it came about, and nothing could have afforded a more complete proof of her refinement of character than the delicacy and tact with which she ignored the whole affair.