“I don’t know,” she said at length, and the roguish light died out of Gertrude’s eyes.
“I don’t understand you, Harriet,” she said very seriously. “You don’t mean that—that”—
“I mean nothing,” cried Mrs. Percy-Bartlett rather feverishly, turning to the piano and playing a few bars of the latest waltz music. Presently she turned around and said,—
“You are unkind, Gertrude. You are unmarried, unengaged, and you can take as much interest as you may care to in any man, married or otherwise, and the world doesn’t stop to gossip about you—that is, of course, if you don’t go on in a scandalous way. But let a married woman show the slightest attention to a man who is not her husband, and everybody begins to whisper and nod and smile, and you are lucky if Town Tattle doesn’t begin to hint at another divorce in the inner circle. I don’t care how many people sing my songs and admire my music, but I wish they would stop talking about me. Can you tell me, Gertrude, why I shouldn’t have the privilege of talking to—to Richard Stoughton, for instance, without being gossiped about?”
“The trouble is, you know, Harriet,” answered Gertrude, the mischievous gleam returning to her eye, “that whatever may be the case with marriage, it was long ago decided that Platonic friendship is a failure.”
“Perhaps so,” returned Mrs. Percy-Bartlett rather wearily. “But people will follow it, ignis fatuus though it may be, to the end of time.”
Gertrude arose to go. “Well, Harriet,” she said softly, bending over and kissing her friend on the forehead, “don’t be annoyed at anything I’ve said. I certainly have the warmest sympathy with your disinclination to let life bore you.”
Mrs. Percy-Bartlett arose and took Gertrude’s hand. “And you will come to my musicale on Tuesday night, my dear?”
“Indeed I shall. I want to get better acquainted with Mr. Richard Stoughton, you know.”
At that moment a servant entered the room and handed a note to her mistress.