“Yes! The position! The woman is nothing. The woman is just a human being, and doesn’t count. I’m the—the—axle in Roseborough’s wheel. So you’ll keep me in my position for your own benefit. The moment I do something which is outside your rules, you seize on my house and my life and—and—force me to save my good name—for you—for you!” pointing an accusing forefinger at him. “But you’ll regret it! Send him to prison and see what comes of it! It’s wicked—wicked. He was so happy and free. And—and....” Hot tears, the result of strained nerves and gusts of fury, gushed from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She sobbed, “You’ll look per—perfect f-fools!”
Mrs. Witherby now came into view. She was scarcely discernible among leaning towers of band-boxes, and carried a black handbag of the size and shape of a young gondola. Leaning over the verandah railing she admonished the silent Mr. Hogworthy.
“Drive home quickly, Thomas. Miss Corinne and Miss Mabel are alone. And do not forget a single one of my instructions.”
“Mrs. Witherby,” Howard warned.
Mrs. Mearely was past caution.
“She is your guest, not mine!” She tossed her head, and started for the music room. Alarmed and now thoroughly angry also, at what he considered her stupid and wilful disregard of a delicate situation, he strode forward to intercept her.
“Control yourself,” he ordered her, severely. “Control yourself. You can’t afford to ignore Mrs. Witherby. I certainly would not advise you to go in there for a tête-à-tête at this stage of the proceedings.”
This latest caution was the last straw.
“I don’t care!” she cried, with rising shrillness. “You—you—have wicked thoughts. You’re horrid, horrid people!” She rushed out, and slammed the door so vigorously that the antiquities of a thousand years rattled.
“Well!” Mrs. Witherby said, when she could get her breath. “Well! and what have you to say to that, Mr. Howard?”