I fancied I could detect that the poor woman had reached a point where she was suspicious of everybody and everything, not an unnatural situation, I knew, with a woman in her marital predicament.
“What has Mr. Hastings done?” inquired Winifred.
“Done?” repeated Mrs. Maddox. “What has he left undone? Why, he shielded Marshall in everything, whenever I mentioned to him this Paquita woman—said it was not his business what his client’s private life was unless he was directed to interest himself in it by his client himself. He was merely an attorney, retained for certain specific purposes. Beyond that he was supposed to know nothing. Oh, my dear, you have much to learn about the wonderful freemasonry that exists among men in matters such as this.”
I caught Kennedy’s quizzical smile. We were having a most telling example of freemasonry among women, into which Irene was initiating a neophyte. I felt sure that Winifred would be much happier if she had been left alone, and events might have a chance to explain themselves without being misinterpreted—a situation from which most of the troubles both in fact and in fiction arise. In her watching of her errant husband, Irene had expected every one immediately to fall in line and aid her—forgetting the very human failing that most people possess of objecting to play the rôle of informer.
“What fools men are!” soliloquized Irene Maddox a moment later, as though coming to the point of her previous random remarks. “Just take that little dancer. What do they see in her? Not brains, surely. As for me, I don’t think she has even beauty. And yet, look at them! She has only to appear up there in the Casino at this very moment to be the most popular person on the floor, while other girls go begging for partners.”
I could feel Winifred bridling at the challenge in the remark. She had tasted popularity herself. Was she to admit defeat at the hands of the little adventuress? Criticize as one might, there was still a fascination about the mystery of Paquita.
One could feel the coolness that had suddenly risen in the summer-house—as if a mist from the water had thrown it about. Nor did the implication of the silence escape Irene Maddox.
“You will pardon me, my dear,” she said, rising. “I know how thankless such a job is. Perhaps I had better not be seen with you. Yes, I am sure of it. I think I had better return to the hotel.”
For a moment Winifred hesitated, as if in doubt whether to go, too, or to stay.
Finally it seemed as if she decided to stay. I do not know which course would have been better for Winifred—to accompany the elder woman and imbibe more of the enforced cynicism, or to remain, brooding over the suspicions which had been injected into her mind. At any rate, Winifred decided to stay, and made no move either to detain or accompany the other.