“So you want to let that go?”
“I think it’s better not to hurt him, Eric.”
He shut the door of their room sharply and yet when she saw him again he had regained his quiet indifference to her doings. The friendship between her and the editor continued to flourish.
They were in the dining-room on Tuesday, the third of August, when the morning papers were brought in. It was a sticky, hot, lifeless morning. Halves of grapefruit tipped wearily on the warmish plates. No one spoke much. The head of the silk department in Green’s was hurrying through his breakfast in order to get down to inspect the window trim. The stenographer at Bailey and Marshall’s had slipped into her place. Mrs. Thorstad was alert determinedly, Mr. Thorstad sagging a little beside her. Robinson picked up his paper first, casually, and uttered a low whistle.
“That’s a bit of news,” he said.
Several people craned and reached for the papers they had been too indolent to open. A headline ran across the page.
PROMINENT CLUBMAN KILLS HIMSELF IN
FASHIONABLE CLUB
WALTER GRANGE CARPENTER, CAPITALIST, SHOOTS SELF
FATALLY IN EARLY MORNING HOURS. CAUSE
OF SUICIDE MYSTERY.
They gathered around the news without a particle of sympathy. No one cared. He was a mystery and sensation—that was all.
“Funny thing,” said Robinson. “I wonder what was at the bottom of that.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised if it was the Duffield girl,” Mrs. Thorstad said rather casually.