She regarded him calmly.
"Where on earth have you been, Mr. Markham?"
"In—France," he stammered. "Do you mean that Hermia—Miss Challoner is—"
"Engaged to Trevvy? Of course. It was cabled from Paris—to the Herald. But then nobody who knows about things is really very much surprised. Trevvy has been wild about her for years and her family have all wanted it. It's really a very good match. You see Trevvy is so steady and she needs a skid to her wheel—"
She rambled on but to Markham her voice was only a confused chatter of many voices. He rose and turned the easel into a better light, then knocked out his pipe into the fireplace. The room whirled around him and he steadied himself against the mantel, while he tried to listen to what else she was saying. Her loquacity, a moment ago so amusing, had assumed a deeper significance. The phrases purled with diabolical fluidity from her lips, searing like molten metal. Hermia! The girl was mad.
The confusion about him ceased and in the silence he heard her voice.
"Are you ill, Mr. Markham?"
He straightened with a short laugh and faced toward her.
"No—not at all. And I was really very much interested," he said evenly. "Miss Challoner is in Europe?" he asked carelessly.
"Oh, yes,—or was—and Trevvy followed her there. She's home now—came yesterday—of course, with Trevvy at her heels. Oh! he'll keep her in order, no fear about that. It's about time that Hermia settled down. She's quite the wildest thing—perfectly properly, you know, Olga Tcherny says—"