“I’m very sorry,” from Freda. “There isn’t time. He must come at once.” The conventional phrases dropped easily from her lips, but she could not forbear to smile inwardly at their inadequacy and weakness. She would much rather have shrieked.
“But, Miss Moloof, who are you that you may possess yourself of Mr. Vanderlip and command his actions?”
Whereupon relief brightened his face, and the man beamed his approval. Trust Mrs. Eppingwell to drag him clear. Freda had met her match this time.
“I—I—” Freda hesitated, and then her feminine mind putting on its harness—“and who are you to ask this question?”
“I? I am Mrs. Eppingwell, and—”
“There!” the other broke in sharply. “You are the wife of a captain, who is therefore your husband. I am only a dancing girl. What do you with this man?”
“Such unprecedented behavior!” Mrs. McFee ruffled herself and cleared for action, but Mrs. Eppingwell shut her mouth with a look and developed a new attack.
“Since Miss Moloof appears to hold claims upon you, Mr. Vanderlip, and is in too great haste to grant me a few seconds of your time, I am forced to appeal directly to you. May I speak with you, alone, and now?”
Mrs. McFee’s jaws brought together with a snap. That settled the disgraceful situation.
“Why, er—that is, certainly,” the man stammered. “Of course, of course,” growing more effusive at the prospect of deliverance.