“I thought he’d do it,” she said, as if speaking to herself. “She couldn’t hold him the way things were going.”
She stood musing, her head slightly drooped. The Robinson Crusoe hat changed its angle and slid down over her forehead. When the fur interfered with her vision she arrested its progress, ramming it violently back.
“I guess she feels pretty bad,” she ruminated, still with the effect of thinking aloud. “That man’s got a terribly taking way with women.”
I felt very uncomfortable. If it was unnecessary to contradict her it was also unnecessary to admit her charges by receiving them in silence. I changed the subject:
“She says she’ll never sing again. It’s very unfortunate.”
Mrs. Stregazzi harpooned the hat with an enormously long pin, tipped by a diamond cluster.
“Never sing again—oh, rats!”
She grimaced as she charged with the pin through a series of obstructions.
“Don’t you be afraid, dearie. She’ll sing—she can’t help it.”
“But she’s positive about it. She insists.”