Mrs. Wrandall checked her.
"You must obey me, if you expect me to help you. Don't you understand that I have had a—a bereavement? I cannot wear these things now. They are useless to me. But we will speak of all that later on. Come, be quick; I will help you to dress. First, go to the telephone and ask them to send a waiter to—these rooms. We must have something to eat. Please do as I tell you."
Standing before her benefactress, her fingers fumbling impotently at the neck of the night-dress, the girl still continued to stare dumbly into the calm, dark eyes before her.
"You are so good. I—I—"
"Let me help you," interrupted the other, deliberately setting about to remove the night-dress. The girl caught it up as it slipped from her shoulders, a warm flush suffusing her face, a shamed look springing into her eyes.
"Thank you, I can—get on very well. I only wanted to ask you a question. It has been on my mind, waking and sleeping. Can you tell me anything about—do you know his wife?"
The question was so abrupt, so startling that Mrs. Wrandall uttered a sharp little cry. For a moment she could not reply.
"I am so sorry, so desperately sorry for her," added the girl plaintively.
"I know her," the other managed to say with an effort.
"If I had only known that he had a wife—" began the girl bitterly, almost angrily.