“Very high. Mr. Embury objected strongly to my playing there, but I went, hoping to win some money that I wanted.”
“That you wanted? For some particular purpose?”
“No; only that I might have a few dollars in my purse, as other women do. It all comes back to the same old quarrel, Mr. Stone. You don’t know—I can’t make you understand—how humiliating, how galling it is for a woman to have no money of her own! Nobody understands—but I have been subjected to shame and embarrassment hundreds of times for the want of a bit of ready money!”
“I think I do understand, Mrs. Embury. I know how hard it must have been for a proud woman to have that annoyance. Did Mr. Embury object to the lady who was your hostess that evening?”
“Yes, he did. Mrs. Desternay is an old school friend of mine, but Mr. Embury never liked her, and he objected more strenuously because she had the bridge games.”
“And the lady’s attitude toward you?”
“Fifi? Oh, I don’t know. We’ve always been friends, generally speaking, but we’ve had quarrels now and then—sometimes we’d be really intimate, and then again, we wouldn’t speak for six weeks at a time. Just petty tiffs, you know, but they seemed serious at the time.”
“I see. Hello, here’s McGuire!”
Ferdinand, with a half-apologetic look, ushered in a boy, with red hair, and a very red face. He was a freckled youth, and his bright eyes showed quick perception as they darted round the room, and came to rest on Miss Ames, on whom he smiled broadly. “This is my assistant,” Stone said, casually; “his name is Terence McGuire, and he is an invaluable help. Anything doing, son?”
“Not partickler. Kin I sit and listen?”