“Anything in the world except that detestable woman,” Mrs. Dodge replied. Then, after some moments of silence over her embroidery, she added abruptly, “Of course, you don’t think she’s detestable!”
“I only said——”
“ ‘Picturesque’ was what you said. ‘Dashing’ was another thing you said. You’re quite fascinated with her derisive gauntlets and her mocking laughter! Dear me, if that isn’t like men!”
“But I only——”
“Oh, murder!” Mrs. Dodge moaned, interrupting him. “I thought you said you weren’t going to talk about her any more!”
At this he showed spirit enough to laugh. “You know well enough we’re both going to keep on talking about her, Lydia. What do you intend to do?”
“About what?” Mrs. Dodge looked surprised. “About her, you mean? Why, naturally, I intend to keep on doing what I have been doing, and that’s nothing whatever except to hold my peace;—I don’t descend to the level of feuds with intriguing women. She gave me a clew, though, this afternoon.”
“What sort of a clew, Lydia?”
“I don’t suppose a man could understand, but I’ll try to give you a glimmering. When she wrote that note to you, there was one thing she hadn’t thought of. She thought of it this afternoon at that tea: it struck her all of a sudden that I could make things a little unpleasant for her if I took the notion to. She just happened to remember that Mrs. Cromwell is my most intimate friend, and that she is the grandest old rock-bottomed mountain this community can boast. That woman all at once remembered, and got afraid I might tell my friends.”
“How do you know she did?”