"Well--by Clarence, I suppose," Mrs. Haviland suggested discontentedly.
"Clarence!" Rachael's tone was but a scornful breath. Her glance toward the ceiling evoked more clearly than any words a vision of Clarence's condition at the moment.
"Well, I suppose he can't do anything just now, anyway," his sister conceded ruefully. "Can't you--couldn't you talk to her, Rachael?"
"Talk to her?" Mrs. Breckenridge smiled at some memory. "My dear Florence, you don't suppose I haven't talked to her!"
"Well, I suppose of course you have," Mrs. Haviland said hastily. "But my dear, it's dreadful! People are beginning to ask questions; a reporter--we don't know who he was--telephoned Gardner. Of course Gardner hung up--"
"I can say no more than I have said," Rachael observed thoughtfully. "What authority have I? Clarence could influence her, I think, but she lies simply and flatly to Clarence."
Mrs. Haviland winced at the ugly word.
"Joe drinks," Rachael went on, "but he doesn't drink as much as her adored Daddy does. Joe is thirty-nine and Billy is seventeen--well, that's not his fault. Joe is divorced--well, but Carol's mother is living, and Clarence's second wife isn't exactly ostracised by society! A clergyman of your own church married Clarence and me--" The little scornful twist of the beautiful mouth stung a church woman conscious of personal integrity, and Mrs. Haviland said:
"A great many of them won't! The church is going to take a stand in the matter. The bishops are considering a canon. ..."
Mrs. Breckenridge shrugged her shoulders indifferently. Theology did not interest her.