'By Mrs. Carnaby? Yes, no doubt it was so. I don't think Mrs. Carnaby could quite have—I mean she is a little reserved, don't you think? She would hardly have spoken about it to—to a comparative stranger.'
'But Mr. Redgrave can't be called a stranger,' said Alma. 'They have been friends for a long time. Surely you know that.'
'Friends in that sense? The word has such different meanings. You and Mr. Redgrave are friends, but I don't think you would care to tell him if your husband were in difficulties of that kind—would you?'
'But Sibyl—Mrs. Carnaby didn't tell him,' replied Alma, with nervous vehemence.
'No, no; we take that for granted. I don't think Mr. Carnaby is—the kind of man——'
'What kind of man?'
'I hardly know him; we have met, that's all. But I should fancy he wouldn't care to know that his wife talked about such things to Mr Redgrave or any one else. There are men'—her voice sank, and the persistent smile became little better than an ugly grin—'there are men who don't mind it. One hears stories I shouldn't like to repeat to you, or even to hint at. But those are very different people from the Carnabys. Then, I suppose,' she added, with abrupt turn, 'Mr. Carnaby is very often away from home?'
Trying to reply, Alma found her voice obstructed.
'I think so.'
'How very kind of Mr. Redgrave, wasn't it! Has he spoken about it to you?'