“June,” said Rosamund, turning toward her with annoyed seriousness, “I don’t think you ought to be friends with Jerry Barclay.”
“What do you say that for?”
Despite her previous remark as to the difficulty of making her angry, there was a distinct, cold edge on June’s voice as she spoke.
“I found out to-night. Ever since we heard those men talk that evening at Mrs. Davenport’s I had a feeling that something wasn’t right. And then Uncle Jim being so positive about not asking Mrs. Newbury here this evening.”
“What’s Mrs. Newbury got to do with it?”
“Everything. It’s all Mrs. Newbury. To-night in the dressing-room some girls were talking about her and Mr. Barclay; I asked them what they meant, and I heard it all. It’s a horrid story. I don’t like to tell it to you.”
“What is it?” said June. She had turned her head on the pillow and stared full face at her sister. She was tensely, frowningly grave.
“Well, they say—every one says—they’re lovers.”
“Lovers!” exclaimed June. “What do you mean by that? She’s married.”
“That’s just the dreadful part of it. They’re that kind of lovers—the wrong kind. They’ve been for years, and she loves him desperately and won’t let him have anything to do with anybody else. And Mr. Newbury loves her, and doesn’t know, and thinks Jerry Barclay is his friend.”