"She'd do anything in the world for you, Roddy," she said, with a vaguely troubled intensity.
This time his mind didn't follow hers. For an instant he misunderstood her pronoun, then he saw what she meant.
"Harriet?—Oh, yes, Harriet's all right," he said absently.
She left his preoccupation alone for a minute or two, but at last broke in on it with a question. "How did you find out about it, Roddy? Who told you?"
"No one," he said in a voice unnaturally level and dry. "I went to see the show on the recommendation of a country client, and there she was on the stage."
"Oh!" cried Frederica—a muffled, barely audible cry of passionate sympathy. Then:
"Roddy," she demanded, "are you sure it's true? Are you absolutely sure that it's really Rose? Or if it is, that she's in her right mind—that she hasn't just wandered off as people do sometimes without knowing who they are?"
"There's nothing in that notion," he said. "It's Rose all right, and she knows what she's doing."
"You mean you've seen her off the stage—talked with her?"
He nodded.