Rose drew back, frowning, uncomprehending.
“What dinner to-night?” she said.
“The one you’re going to take with my husband.”
For the first time in the interview, the young girl was lifted from the sense of dishonesty that crushed her by a rising flood of angry pride.
“I take dinner with my father to-night in our house on California Street,” she said coldly.
“Bosh!” said Berny, giving her head a furious jerk. “You needn’t bother wasting time on lies like that to me. I’m not a complete fool.”
“Mrs. Ryan,” said Rose, “I think we’d better end this talk. We can’t have any rational conversation when you keep telling me what I say is a lie. I am sorry you feel so badly, and I wish I could say something to you that you’d believe. All I can do to ease your mind is to assure you that I never, except on those two occasions, have seen your husband since his return from the country and I certainly never intend to see him again.”
She rose from the bench and, as she did so, Berny cried,
“Then how do you account for the money that was offered me yesterday?”
“Money?” said the young girl, pausing as she stood. “What money?”