“Yes. She is my friend,” said she proudly.
The elder lady uttered a short, hard sound, which she meant for a derisive laugh.
“Well, you are an independent young person, upon whom warnings are thrown away. However, it may be of passing interest for you to know that the lady you call your friend—” Mabin put her hands to her ears, instinctively guessing that she was to hear some horrible thing. In the darkness of the room the face above her seemed to her to be distorted with the passion of a fiend as, in a voice so piercing that the girl heard it distinctly, in spite of herself; she went on: “that the lady you call your friend has ruined the life of a man who loved her.” And Mabin caught her breath, thinking of the white face of Mr. Banks. Still the hard voice went inexorably on: “and that she murdered her own husband!”
Mabin uttered a shriek, as her hands fell down from her ears.
CHAPTER XIII.
MRS. DALE’S VERSION OF THE STORY.
The terrible words rang in Mabin’s ears as she remained staring at the hard, vindictive face of the elder woman, hardly yet realizing all that the accusation meant.
Mrs. Dale had murdered her own husband! Surely, surely it was not true. She might be vain, frivolous, a coquette; but a murderess! The girl instinctively shook her head.
The gaunt visitor, with an acid and unpleasant smile, sat down on one of the fragile-looking papier-maché chairs, with mother-of-pearl inlaid ornamentation, which dated the furnishing of the room.
“I—I can’t believe it. No, I won’t believe it!” whispered Mabin hoarsely.
“There is no necessity for your doing so,” retorted the other with indifference. “As it is a very unpleasant thing to believe, indeed, I think you are wise to discredit it. And since she has alienated all her old friends, it is fortunate that she can manage to find new ones.”