It was later in the afternoon when she called upon Mrs. Birks. She was conducted to that lady's boudoir, and there found Mr. Athel senior in colloquy with his sister. The subject of the conversation was unmistakable.
'You know?' asked Mrs. Birks, with resignation, as soon as the door was closed behind the visitor.
'I have come to talk it over with you.'
Mr. Athel was standing with his hands clasped behind him; he was rather redder in the face than usual, and had clearly been delivering himself of ample periods.
'Really, Mrs. Baxendale,' he began, 'I have a difficulty in expressing myself on the subject. The affair is simply monstrous. It indicates a form of insanity. I—uh—I—uh—in truth I don't know from what point to look at it.'
'Where is Beatrice?' Mrs. Birks asked.
'She will stay with me for a day or two,' replied Mrs. Baxendale.
'How—how is she?' inquired Mr. Athel, sympathetically.
'Upset, of course, but not seriously, I hope.'
'Really,' Mrs. Birks exclaimed, 'Wilfrid might have had some consideration for other people. Hero are the friendships of a lifetime broken up on his account.'