“I dare say you haven't,” said the other with ominous clearness. “He has been here since seven this morning, waiting for a chance to speak to his father in private.”
“Heaven help me! I—I am too———”
“Unless he spent the night in your apartment, I fancy you haven't seen him,” went on Yvonne languidly.
She was descending the stairs slowly, almost lazily as she uttered the remark.
“They are together now?” gasped Mrs Desmond.
“Will you come into the library? Good morning, gentlemen. I trust you may enjoy your long walk.”
Mrs Desmond followed her into the library. Yvonne closed the door almost in the face of Mr Riggs, who had opened his mouth to accept the invitation to tea, but who said he'd “be blasted” instead, so narrow was his escape from having his nose banged. He emphasised the declaration by shaking his fist at the door.
The two women faced each other. For the first time since she had known Yvonne Brood, Mrs Desmond observed a high touch of colour in her cheeks. Her beautiful eyes were alive with an excitement she could not conceal. Neither spoke for a moment.
“You are accountable for this, Mrs Brood,” said Lydia Desmond's mother sternly, accusingly. She expected a storm of indignant protest. Instead, Yvonne smiled slightly.
“It will not hurt my husband to discover that Frederic is a man and not a milksop,” she said, but despite her coolness there was a perceptible note of anxiety in her voice.