“Yes, indeed,” Howard agreed; “I cannot be thankful enough for poor Rosamond’s safety.”
Mrs. Witherby gave him an acid look, and sniffed.
“Yes! I dare say your gratitude is deep, Mr. Howard. As for me, I don’t appreciate being dragged out of bed at three in the morning, and frightened out of my senses, for any Mr. Mills I never saw in all my life.”
“I’m sure the realization of your purely disinterested intention must compensate for the loss of your beauty-sleep, Mrs. Witherby.” His manner was courteous, even courtly; yet, in some subtle way, he succeeded in implying that she was a meddler. She bristled.
“As I am not a relative of Mrs. Mearely’s, I think my disinterestedness may be taken for granted, Mr. Howard. The sad occasion would not have benefited me.”
Corinne, anxious to ward off strife, said hastily:
“Hadn’t we better go, mamma? Mrs. Mearely won’t need you to take charge of things now.”
This fact, alas, was not soothing to a lady with Mrs. Witherby’s passion for taking charge of things. She snapped:
“I know that without your telling me. Where on earth did you learn to be such a busybody? Of course, now I’m here, I shall wait to see Mrs. Mearely.”
There was a short, uncomfortable silence, while she twisted about and tossed her head, smiled disagreeably and very knowingly, and tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. Her motions presently focussed the gaze of the other two upon her with a sort of fascination. She turned, sharply, on Howard: