Fanny looked thoughtful. “Well, of course nobody not one’s most intimate friends would speak to them about such things, and then only in the kindest, most considerate way.”
“Who’s spoken of it to you in any way at all?” George demanded.
“Why—” Fanny hesitated.
“You answer me!”
“I hardly think it would be fair to give names.”
“Look here,” said George. “One of your most intimate friends is that mother of Charlie Johnson’s, for instance. Has she ever mentioned this to you? You say everybody is talking. Is she one?”
“Oh, she may have intimated—”
“I’m asking you: Has she ever spoken of it to you?”
“She’s a very kind, discreet woman, George; but she may have intimated—”
George had a sudden intuition, as there flickered into his mind the picture of a street-crossing and two absorbed ladies almost run down by a fast horse. “You and she have been talking about it to-day!” he cried. “You were talking about it with her not two hours ago. Do you deny it?”