“Mr. Hadley!” she exclaimed, seizing his hand, and dragging him aside from the crowd. “It’s Miss Wilkinson’s clothes, that’s why you thought it was her. But now I’ve got you, I want to ask you why you’ve been such a quitter? You, of all people!”
John tried to be angry, but he felt his resentment melting at the girl’s earnestness.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“What do I mean? Miss Wilkinson at death’s door, so hundreds of her friends were telephonin’ and sendin’ flowers day and night, and not even the price of a two-cent stamp would you spend to find out how she was! Even if you had been mad at her, common decency ought to have made you ask after her, when she’s been that sick!”
In spite of the force of her words, Queenie kept her voice lowered, so soft, indeed, that Mr. Richards did not catch the portent of the conversation. Instead of being angry now, John was intensely alarmed. Had Marjorie really been ill, then, and he had not taken the trouble to find out! His face turned deathly pale at the thought of what might have happened.
It was his turn to clutch Queenie’s arm.
“Is she all right now? Tell me quick, Queenie!”
“She’s sitting up in bed,” replied the girl stiffly. “But far from well.”
“Do you suppose I could see her?”
“Yes, if your ‘business’ lets you,” she replied sarcastically. “I understand it took you out of town the very day she was the worst!”