“But—but—everybody thinks so,” was all she could repeat.
“Then they think what’s not so. Do you think so?” with eager challenge.
The other looked down, her brows drawn together in worried indecision.
“I don’t know what to think,” she said. “When he comes up in my mind, especially as he was at Foleys, it seems as if I couldn’t believe it either.”
“There!” exclaimed June triumphantly. “Of course you can’t. Nobody who has any sense could. It’s just degraded, low-minded people who have nothing better to do than spread scandals that could believe such a story about such a man.”
“But Mrs. Newbury,” demurred her sister. “Why did Uncle Jim not want us to ask her to-night?”
“What’s Mrs. Newbury got to do with it? I don’t know. I don’t care anything about her. I don’t like her. She looks like a large white seal, walking on the tip of its tail. I think she’s common and fat and ugly. But what does she matter? If Mr. Newbury loves her he’s got very bad taste, that’s all I’ve got to say. And as to Jerry Barclay loving her? Why, Rosamund—” she suddenly dropped to her most persuasive softness of tone and expression—“you know he couldn’t.”
“I don’t know,” said Rosamund. “I don’t feel as if I knew anything about men, or what they like, or what they don’t like. You might think Mrs. Newbury ugly and they might think her beautiful. You never can tell. And then those men on the steps that night at Mrs. Davenport’s”—she shot an uneasy glance at her sister—“that was what they meant.”
“Rosie,” said June, leaning toward her and speaking with pleading emphasis, “you don’t believe it?”
“I don’t want to, that’s certain.”