“Oh, mentally Bibbs is all right,” said Sibyl, in an odd voice.
“Entirely?” Mrs. Vertrees asked, breathlessly.
“Yes, entirely.”
“But has he ALWAYS been?” This question came with the same anxious eagerness.
“Certainly. He had a long siege of nervous dyspepsia, but he's over it.”
“And you think—”
“Bibbs is all right. You needn't wor—” Sibyl choked, and pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. “Good night, Mrs. Vertrees,” she said, hurriedly, as the head-lights of an automobile swung round the corner above, sending a brightening glare toward the edge of the pavement where the two ladies were standing.
“Won't you come in?” urged Mrs. Vertrees, cordially, hearing the sound of a cheerful voice out of the darkness beyond the approaching glare. “Do! There's Mary now, and she—”
But Sibyl was half-way across the street. “No, thanks,” she called. “I hope she won't miss her piano!” And she ran into her own house and plunged headlong upon a leather divan in the hall, holding her handkerchief over her mouth.
The noise of her tumultuous entrance was evidently startling in the quiet house, for upon the bang of the door there followed the crash of a decanter, dropped upon the floor of the dining-room at the end of the hall; and, after a rumble of indistinct profanity, Roscoe came forth, holding a dripping napkin in his hand.