Still the other woman was at her heels, babbling and gasping out her sordid little tragedy—-two children, no money, her mother to keep.
Clara was stunned and so nauseated that she could not speak. Only in her mind the thought went round and round,—
'It is my fault.... It is my fault.'
But Charles ought to have told her. He ought not to have been so will-less, so ready to fall in with every suggestion she made.
'I must have this out at once,' she said, and hailing a taxi she bundled the other woman into it and drove home. Charles was out. She ordered tea, and quickly had the whole story out—the lodgings in Birmingham, the intrigue, the ultimatum, Charles's catastrophic collapse and inertia, years of poverty in London going from studio to studio, lodging to lodging: his flight—with another woman: her struggles, her present hand to mouth existence on the outskirts of the musical comedy theatre.
'I wouldn't have spoken,' said Kitty, 'if you hadn't been so young.'
'I should have thought that was a reason for keeping quiet,' replied Clara, who was now almost frozen with horror.
'You were bound to hear sooner or later.'
Charles came in followed by Mr Clott. He was in the highest spirits and called out,—
'Darling, Lord Verschoyle is interested.'