Andrée sighed.
“I will, then, if you like, Mother. But it’ll be horrible. We’ll be horrible. We’ll quarrel. All his commonness comes out when he’s angry.”
“You needn’t quarrel. Then it’s agreed that I’m to write?”
“Yes,” said Andrée. “But it’s not a bit of use to try your diplomacy, Mother dear! I see through you!”
And this very evening she was trying to write that letter. Andrée and Malloy were sitting on the porch, almost under her window, now and then she could hear the murmur of their voices.
“I’ll write the other letters first!” she decided, in despair.
She wrote to Gilbert, the same sort of thing she had been writing all the month.
“I think it is very necessary to stay with Andrée until she and her husband are reconciled. It is a critical time. I hope and believe that all will turn out well.”
He, of course, knew nothing at all of the Malloy complication; he believed it to be a simple quarrel.