CHAPTER XIII
MODERN FRIENDSHIP
As Kate Charlock sat debating her position with anxiety, the door opened cautiously and a gaily dressed figure slipped into the room. The place seemed to be half-filled with billowing draperies and the air was heavy with subtle perfume. Kate Charlock turned in amazement upon the intruder.
"Jessica!" she gasped. "What are you doing here?"
"You may well ask that," Mrs. Bromley-Martin tittered. "But a little bird told me what was going on, and when I had a wire from Lady Strathmore this morning asking me to bring a mob over to tea this afternoon, I jumped at the opportunity. My word, what a time we have had all morning pulling your character to pieces! And just now, when Belle Langley bet me a dozen pairs of gloves I dare not come up and interview you, I closed like a shot. Well, what have you to say for yourself?"
From head to foot Kate Charlock quivered with indignation. She was not blind to her own folly, but, then, she had so hedged herself in with self-pity that she did not regard herself as the average woman who has fallen away from grace. Her case was quite different. But she merely smiled as she replied.
"I have nothing to say for myself," she responded. "I am content to leave my character in the hands of those who, like yourself, are acquainted with my unhappy domestic life. My husband chose to turn me out of house and home, and the punishment should be his more than mine. I know that socially my life is finished."
"Terribly sad," Mrs. Bromley-Martin laughed gaily. "I am not going to blame you. You are no worse than two-thirds of us, as you know very well. Besides, we ought to be grateful to you for giving us something fresh to talk about. Still, we shall miss our tall, white saint who was the connecting link between ourselves and absolute respectability. But I must not stay longer. One has to be careful, you know."
"Yes, with a reputation like yours, one has to be," Mrs. Charlock said sweetly. "You may tell your friends that they need not trouble to waste their sympathy upon me. I am quite happy."
Kate Charlock's looks belied her words as Mrs. Bromley-Martin flitted from the room like some great gauze butterfly. She had little enough to be happy about, she told herself; from the bottom of her heart she resented the patronage of her late visitor. At length she was roused from her reverie by the entrance of a servant with a telegram on a tray. It was addressed to Rent, but Kate opened it and glanced carelessly at the contents. Her face did not move a muscle as she turned to the waiter and told him that there was no reply.