“You know it wasn’t,” declared Phœbe, bluntly. “You know she wanted me out because my mother is West, getting a divorce from my father.”
“My land!” marveled Sophie, sitting back and staring up. “How’d you ever guess?—Phœbe, you been listenin’!”
“Genevieve Finnegan,” said Phœbe, laconically.
“Oh, that little imp!”
“You knew all the time?”
Sophie went back to her garnering. “Oh, yes,” she admitted proudly. “I showed Miss Royal Highness Simpson in. And your Uncle John, he tried to bluff her—told her your mamma wasn’t well, and so forth. But she didn’t bluff.”
“She knew,” put in Phœbe, “because there was a piece in a New York paper.”
“Right y’ are! Well, she didn’t want talk in her school, she said; didn’t want her little girls, the angels, to even know there was such a thing as divorce in the whole world!”
“It’s in the movies,” reminded Phœbe. “The girls all know.”
“Course they do! And when she had somethin’ to say to the Judge, you betcha he told her what’s what!”