The three talked for a few minutes. With Mrs. Cosgrove were two persons, a younger woman and a man of about thirty—the latter a comely and vivacious fellow, with rather long hair of the orange-tawny hue. These looked at Monica, but Mrs. Cosgrove made no introduction.
“Come and see me, will you?” she said, mentioning her address. “One can’t get out much in the evenings; I shall be nearly always at home after dinner, and we have music—of a kind.”
Monica boldly accepted the invitation, said she would be glad to come. Then Mrs. Cosgrove took leave of them, and walked landwards with her companions.
Widdowson stood gazing at the sea. There was no misreading his countenance. When Monica had remarked it, she pressed her lips together, and waited for what he would say or do. He said nothing, but presently turned his back upon the waves and began to walk on. Neither spoke until they were in the shelter of the streets; then Widdowson asked suddenly,—
“Who is that person?”
“I only know her name, and that she goes to Miss Barfoot’s.”
“It’s a most extraordinary thing,” he exclaimed in high irritation. “There’s no getting out of the way of those people.”
Monica also was angry; her cheeks, reddened by the wind, grew hotter.
“It’s still more extraordinary that you should object so to them.”
“Whether or no—I do object, and I had rather you didn’t go to see that woman.”