“Poor wretch! Life can’t be very interesting for her now George Rookwood has gone.”
“What can she expect?” said Mrs Skeffington-Smythe with an air of the utmost virtue. “If a woman deliberately runs off the rails she must expect a smash-up.”
“The smash-up is not the worst part of it, I imagine,” remarked Mrs Valetta. “No doubt there is plenty of compensating excitement about that. It is in the cold grey years that come after that the full tale of misery is told. However, I don’t think she has reached that point yet.”
“No, wait; some day George Rookwood will meet a girl and fall in love.”
Mrs Skeffington-Smythe spoke in a pleasant gentle tone and her eyes took on the rapt look of one contemplating the tenderest kind of romance. Just about this time the doctor paid his daily visit, and one of his items of news concerned Mrs Rookwood. The men were charitable enough not to grudge her the name of the man for whom she had staked her all on the great chess-board of life.
“As no one had seen anything of her since the departure of Rookwood,” said Dr Abingdon, “and the house showed no sign of being occupied, Blow thought it his business to call there this morning, and when he couldn’t make any one hear he proceeded to break in, and—what do you think?”
Every one had put on a frozen face at the first mention of Mrs Rookwood, giving the doctor to understand that they considered it insufferable impertinence on his part to speak of such a person in their presence at all; but at his dramatic pause curiosity could not be restrained.
“Well? What?” said Miss Cleeve.
“Has she committed suicide?” cried Mrs Skeffington-Smythe.
Mrs Valetta had the decency to curl her lip at them.