"But I wasn't. And I mean what I say. And—and—it's true about Madeleine. I went there the other day and she saw me—and—oh, I never meant to tell it—it's too terrible!"
"So," said Mrs. McLane. "So," She added thoughtfully after a moment.
"It's a curious coincidence. Langdon Masters is drinking himself to
death in New York. Jack Belmont returned the other day—he told Mr.
McLane."
She had been interrupted several times, Madeleine for the moment forgotten.
"Why didn't Alexander Groome know? He's his cousin and bad enough himself, heaven knows."
"Oh, poor Langdon! Poor Langdon! I knew he could love a woman like that—"
"He has remarkable powers of concentration!"
"I'll wager Mr. Abbott heard it himself at the Club, the wretch! He'll hear from me!"
"Oh, it's too awful," wailed Sally again. "What an end to a romance. It was quite perfect before—in a way. And now instead of pitying poor Madeleine and wishing we were her—she—which is it?—we'll all be despising her!"
"It's loathsome," said Mrs. Ballinger. "I wish I had not heard it. I prefer to believe that such things do not exist."
"Good heavens, mamma, I've heard that gentlemen in the good old South were as drunk as lords, oftener than not."