“Hester, what is it?” she asked very gravely for the third time. “You’re my best friend—the only friend I have besides him. If it’s anything bad, I’d much rather hear it from you. But I can’t stand this suspense. I shall ask everybody until somebody tells me the truth.”
Mrs. Crowdie seemed to reflect for a moment before answering, but even while she was thinking of what she should say, her passionate eyes sought for her husband’s pale face in the crowd—the pale face and the red lips that so many women thought repulsive.
“Dear,” she said at last, “it’s foolish to make such a fuss and to frighten you. That sort of thing has happened to almost all men at one time or another—really, you know! You mustn’t blame Jack too much—”
“For what? For what? Speak, Hester! Don’t try to—”
“Katharine darling, Walter says that Jack was—well—you know—just a little far gone—and they had some trouble with him at the club. I don’t know—it seems that my brother tried to hold him for some reason or other—it’s not quite clear—and Jack threw Ham down, there in the hall of the club, before a lot of people—Katharine dearest, I’m so sorry I spoke!”
Katharine was leaning back against the cushion, her hands folded together, and her face set like a mask; but she said nothing, and scarcely seemed to be listening, though she heard every word.
“Of course, dear,” continued Mrs. Crowdie, “I know how you love him—but you mustn’t think any the worse of him for this. Ham just told me it wasn’t—well—it wasn’t as bad as Walter made out, and he was very angry with Walter for telling me—as though he would keep anything from me!”
She stopped again, being much more inclined to talk of Crowdie than of Ralston, and to defend his indiscretion. Katharine did not move nor change her position, and her eyes looked straight before her, though it was clear that they saw nothing.
“I’m glad it was you who told me,” she said in a low, monotonous tone.
“So am I,” answered her friend, sympathetically. “And I’m sure it’s not half as bad as they—”