“I want to speak to you, Miss Madden. Where did you go with Mr. Bullivant this morning?”
The voice could not have been more distinctive of a London shop-girl; its tone signified irritation.
“With Mr. Bullivant? I went nowhere with him.”
“But I saw you both get into the bus in Kennington Park Road.”
“Did you?” Monica returned coldly. “I can’t help it if Mr. Bullivant happened to be going the same way.”
“Oh, very well! I thought you was to be trusted. It’s nothing to me—”
“You behave very foolishly, Miss Eade,” exclaimed the other, whose nerves at this moment would not allow her to use patience with the jealous girl. “I can only tell you that I have never thought again of Mr. Bullivant since he left the bus somewhere in Clapham Road. I’m tired of talking about such things.”
“Now, see here, don’t be cross. Come and walk a bit and tell me—”
“I’m too tired. And there’s nothing whatever to tell you.”
“Oh, well, if you’re going to be narsty?”