“Oh, he just told me,” said Laura, puzzled at Coral’s heat.
“Didn’t you fall through the floor? My dear, you mustn’t! I can’t tell you things if you——Oh, really, Laura, you’re the limit!” Coral was divided between laughter and real annoyance.
“But I always ask Justin everything,” Laura remonstrated. “Why shouldn’t I? Of course I shouldn’t dream of telling Aunt Adela. But Justin!”
And Coral, that typical stage mixture of frankness and prudery, was forced to realize that she was entirely and unsuspiciously sincere.
“D’you tell him anything?” she gasped.
“Well, who else can I ask? He was at Oxford, you know. He knows an awful lot.”
“He must be a decent sort! My word!” Coral was impressed for once.
“He’s Justin,” said Laura placidly.
And Coral, the married woman, the woman of her world, admitted to herself, with a laugh and a touch of envy, that there were things in Brackenhurst undreamed of in her philosophy, and that their names were Laura Valentine and Henry Justin Cloud. Also, with admirable wisdom, that she had much better leave them to work out their own salvation in their own amazing way.
But you don’t suppose that she did? Surely the resolve was enough to stamp her an unusual woman. You cannot expect her to abide by it.