Miss Weston’s blushes were renewed. “He has been very often,” she said, and wrung her hands. “I shall have to tell, doctor, shan’t I? Yes. He met Miss Bolton once at supper and then he used to come here.”
“Ah! Good-looking fellow, is he?”
“Oh, yes. He is very big and handsome.”
“And Miss Bolton liked him. Well, well.” Reggie understood now why poor Birdie Bolton had been dreaming dreams of nights.
“Yes,” said May Weston faintly. “Oh, it’s a shame! But I must tell. She thought he came to see her, but——”
“But it was really to see you. Now, let’s get back to the coffee.”
“He came last night. We were so gay. Miss Bolton—oh, poor Birdie!”
“We can’t undo that, my dear. Let’s do what we can for her. Did he stay late?”
“Rather. I don’t know. I was sleepy. But Birdie was so gay. And then—and then he went away and Birdie began to talk about him. I don’t know how it happened. She said something—and I felt I just had to tell her—I told her he had proposed to me. And then she was furious. Oh, have you ever seen her in one of her rages? She was terrible. She said dreadful things. And I—I felt as if I couldn’t do anything at all. I was dazed and faint and just sat. I know she hit me.”
“I saw the bruise,” Reggie said gently, looking at the blue mark on her neck.