“But George wouldn’t worry her,” I objected.
“Oh, wouldn’t he?” The girl laughed sadly. “I don’t suppose he could help it, he’s in such a state himself, but between him and Elizabeth it’s hard to see how poor Mrs. Harman lived through the day.”
“Well,” I said slowly, “I don’t see that they’re not right. She ought to be kept out of all this as much as possible; and if her husband has to go through a trial—”
“I want you to tell me something,” Miss Elliott interrupted. “How much do you like Mr. Ward?”
“He’s an old friend. I suppose I like my old friends in about the same way that other people like theirs.”
“How much do you like Mr. Saffren—I mean Mr. Harman?”
“Oh, THAT!” I groaned. “If I could still call him ‘Oliver Saffren,’ if I could still think of him as ‘Oliver Saffren,’ it would be easy to answer. I never was so ‘drawn’ to a man in my life before. But when I think of him as Larrabee Harman, I am full of misgivings.”
“Louise isn’t,” she put in eagerly, and with something oddly like the manner of argument. “His wife isn’t!”
“Oh, I know. Perhaps one reason is that she never saw him at quite his worst. I did. I had only two glimpses of him—of the briefest—but they inspired me with such a depth of dislike that I can’t tell you how painful it was to discover that ‘Oliver Saffren’—this strange, pathetic, attractive FRIEND of mine—is the same man.”
“Oh, but he isn’t!” she exclaimed quickly.