“Did you—did you ever think over that trouble with Miss Page about the medicines? That would have been easy, and like her.”
“She hates Miss Page, of course, but I hardly think—If that's true, it was nearly murder.”
There were two voices, a young one, full of soft southern inflections, and an older voice, a trifle hard, as from disillusion.
They were working as they talked. Sidney could hear the clatter of bottles on the tray, the scraping of a moved table.
“He was crazy about her last fall.”
“Miss Page?” (The younger voice, with a thrill in it.)
“Carlotta. Of course this is confidential.”
“Surely.”
“I saw her with him in his car one evening. And on her vacation last summer—”
The voices dropped to a whisper. Sidney, standing cold and white by the sterilizer, put out a hand to steady herself. So that was it! No wonder Carlotta had hated her. And those whispering voices! What were they saying? How hateful life was, and men and women. Must there always be something hideous in the background? Until now she had only seen life. Now she felt its hot breath on her cheek.