“Why impossible?”
“Because I infer that it was told in confidence.”
Mrs. Cope stared incredulously.
“Well, what of that? Your husband looks such a dear—any one can see he’s awfully gone on you. What’s to prevent your getting it out of him?”
Lydia flushed.
“I’m not a spy!” she exclaimed.
“A spy—a spy? How dare you?” Mrs. Cope flamed out. “Oh, I don’t mean that either! Don’t be angry with me—I’m so miserable.” She essayed a softer note. “Do you call that spying—for one woman to help out another? I do need help so dreadfully! I’m at my wits’ end with Trevenna, I am indeed. He’s such a boy—a mere baby, you know; he’s only two-and-twenty.” She dropped her orbed lids. “He’s younger than me—only fancy! a few months younger. I tell him he ought to listen to me as if I was his mother; oughtn’t he now? But he won’t, he won’t! All his people are at him, you see—oh, I know their little game! Trying to get him away from me before I can get my divorce—that’s what they’re up to. At first he wouldn’t listen to them; he used to toss their letters over to me to read; but now he reads them himself, and answers ‘em too, I fancy; he’s always shut up in his room, writing. If I only knew what his plan is I could stop him fast enough—he’s such a simpleton. But he’s dreadfully deep too—at times I can’t make him out. But I know he’s told your husband everything—I knew that last night the minute I laid eyes on him. And I must find out—you must help me—I’ve got no one else to turn to!”
She caught Lydia’s fingers in a stormy pressure.
“Say you’ll help me—you and your husband.”
Lydia tried to free herself.