Her passion was as evident as it was senseless. Bare of the mask that swung from silken strings caught in her fingers, her face shone bright with the incandescence of seething agitation. Her eyes were hard, her mouth tight-lipped, her temper patently set on a hair-trigger.
Quite automatically, on this interruption, Sally rose and, standing, slipped the card into its envelope, an action which brought from the older woman a curt, imperative gesture.
"What have you written there?" she demanded brusquely.
Before answering Sally carried the envelope to her lips, moistened its flap, and sealed it. Thus she gained time to collect herself and compose her attitude, which turned out unexpectedly to be something cold and critical.
"Why do you ask?" she returned.
"Because I've a right to know. If it concerns me--"
"Why should it?" Sally cut in.
"You know very well that if you breathe a syllable about last night--"
"But what about last night? You came to my room while I was inexplicably out and waited till I returned. I can't see why you should care if that became known."
"Have you written anything about that?" Mrs. Standish demanded insistently.