“You’re in wrong. She didn’t land the Colonel. She couldn’t have done it. She wouldn’t have had the nerve. An older hand played the line and made the cast; but she was the pretty fly, all right.”
“Well, of course I didn’t know,” replied Wingfield humbly, wondering again at the ramifications of Walsh’s knowledge.
“Should you say she had the come-hither in her eye?”
Wingfield had spoken lightly, but he was rebuked by the unmistakable displeasure in Walsh’s face. The old fellow shrugged his shoulders but when he spoke there was kindness in his tone.
“She’s kind o’ pathetic to me. There’s nothing hard in her. As I said, she’s like glass, and when that kind break it’s just get the broom and sweep out the pieces, that’s all. But I don’t like to hear the tinkle of broken glass. There ain’t much satisfaction in seeing human nature topple and fall off the shelf—men or women. The strong ones, the heavy pottery, can drop hard and roll some; clay’s coarser; but these weak ones—it makes you sick.”
Walsh was silent for a moment, then, seeing that he had checked Wingfield, he asked:
“How did the situation up there strike you?”
“It was proper enough—quite beautiful and domestic. I don’t suppose Wayne ever spent a whole evening at home before in his life. How do you explain the other woman—a sort of chaperone rung in to improve the looks of things?”
“It doesn’t make any difference how she got there; that ain’t our business; but I felt better when I saw her there. She’s a good girl; she’s all right.”
Walsh’s omniscience would have annoyed Wingfield if he had not so greatly admired it. It seemed that Walsh not only possessed much information as to the private affairs of the Craighill family but that his knowledge covered also the casual stranger within the Craighill gates.