Mrs. Wrandall grasped her by the arm. "You did not know that he had a wife?" she cried.
The girl's eyes flashed with a sudden, fierce fire in their depths.
"God in heaven, no! I did not know it until—Oh, I can't speak of it! Why should I tell you about it? Why should you be interested in hearing it?"
Mrs. Wrandall drew back and regarded the girl's set, unhappy face. There was a curious light in her eyes that escaped the other's notice,—a light that would have puzzled her not a little.
"But you WILL tell me—EVERYTHING—a little later," she said, strangely calm. "Not now, but,—before many hours have passed. First of all, you must tell me who you are, where you live,—everything except what happened in Burton's Inn. I don't want to hear that at present—perhaps never. Yes, on second thoughts, I will say NEVER! You are never to tell me just what happened up there, or just what led up to it. Do you understand? Never!"
The girl stared at her in amazement. "But I—I must tell some one," she cried vehemently. "I have a right to defend myself—"
"I am not asking you to defend yourself," said Mrs. Wrandall shortly. Then, as if afraid to remain longer, she rushed from the room. In the doorway, she turned for an instant to say: "Do as I told you. Telephone. Dress as quickly as you can." She closed the door swiftly.
Standing in the centre of the room, her hands clenched until the nails cut the flesh, she said over and over again to herself: "I don't want to know! I don't want to KNOW!"
A few minutes later she was critically inspecting the young woman who came from the bedroom attired in a street dress that neither of them had ever donned before. The girl, looking fresher, prettier and even younger than when she had seen her last, was in no way abashed. She seemed to have accepted the garments and the situation in the same spirit of resignation and hope: as if she had decided to make the most of her slim chance to profit by these amazing circumstances.
They sat opposite each other at the little breakfast table.