When Kathryn was deeply moved she spoke out of the 191 corner of her mouth. It was an unpleasant trick––her lips became hard and twisted.
“Oh! no, I did not, nor anyone else.” The name seemed to hurt and Mary-Clare leaned back. “May I ask who you are?” she said. Mary-Clare was indignant at she hardly knew what; hurt, too, by what was steadying her. She knew beyond doubt that the woman near her was one of Northrup’s world!
“I am Miss Morris. I am engaged to be married to Mr. Northrup.”
It were better to cut deep while cutting, and Kathryn’s nerve was now set to her task. She unrelentingly eyed her victim. She went on:
“I can see how this must shock you. I sent my car on to the inn. I wanted a walk and––well! I came upon this place. Fate is such a strange thing.”
Kathryn ran her words along rather wildly. The silence of her companion, the calm way in which she was regarding her, were having an unpleasant effect. When Kathryn became aware of her own voice she was apt to talk too much––she grew confidential.
“Mr. Northrup’s mother is ill. She needs him. The way I have known all this right along is simply a miracle.”
How much more Kathryn might have said she was never to know, for Mary-Clare raised a hand as though to stay the inane torrent.
“What can you possibly mean,” she asked, and her eyes darkened, “by knowing this all along? I do not understand––what have you known?”
Then Kathryn sank in a morass.