Bridget looked at her. “There isn’t,” she said with a note of anxiety in her voice, “anything wrong with Jasper?”
“Oh, no,” said Miss Mason quickly, “but I was talking to him last night.”
“Ah!” said Bridget.
“And——” said Miss Mason, and stopped. It seemed entirely impossible now to put her ideas into words. It is one thing to have marvellous and fairy tale schemes in one’s mind, and plan all kinds of wonderful arrangements during the magic hours of the night. It is quite another to find words for them in broad daylight and in a rather sordid little parlour, especially when they seemed to resolve themselves into the rather impertinent statement that Jasper would love his wife if she brushed her hair. It is hardly a suggestion one can make in cold blood to a complete stranger. “I just came,” ended Miss Mason helplessly.
She looked through the window wondering how she could best make her escape, and wishing with all her heart that she had kept the taxi.
It was Bridget herself who came to the rescue.
“I suppose,” she said slowly, “that Jasper told you our story—it’s a sordid little story, isn’t it—and you wanted to help?”
Miss Mason nodded. Something in Bridget’s eyes made her own fill with tears. She forgot her desire to run away. She felt that she was near a dumb animal in pain.
“Tell me,” said Bridget, “what Jasper told you?”
Very stumblingly Miss Mason gave her some idea of the conversation. She wanted her to know the truth, yet dreaded to hurt her more than necessary.