“I’m waiting downstairs in the hall,” he said. “I don’t care to come up.”
Frances hurried into her hat and jacket and went down. She got into the motor-car beside him, indescribably relieved to get away from the flat for a while. She looked at him with a smile.
“Well!” she said.
“Well!” he repeated. “Upon my word, that was a jolly little party last night! That German chap!”
“You don’t know how sorry I felt, bringing that on you. But, of course, I never imagined——”
“You know, though, it’s no place for you, Miss Defoe. That woman’s not——”
“Please! You really can’t understand her as I do. She—really, she’s....”
She stopped, at a loss, but quite determined to protect the poor wretch who had begged for pity the night before.
“She has so many good points,” she went on, “Oh, I’m not quite an idiot, Mr. Naylor.... I see her as she is. Only—I’d rather dwell on her good qualities. She’s been very kind to me.”
Not for worlds would she have told anyone of the two dreadful scenes. She enlarged on Miss Eppendorfer’s friendliness and good humour and the excellence of her work.