“Let’s drive to Mrs. Copeland’s place,” he remarked casually. “I’ve always meant to look at her farm.”
He watched her sharply, as though expecting her to object. Possibly he had some purpose in this; or the suggestion might be due to malevolence; but she dismissed any such idea. He was always curious about people, and there was, to be sure, no reason why he should not call on Mrs. Copeland.
“Certainly; I shall be very glad to go, papa,” she answered.
“Nan,” he said, laying his hand on her wrist, “there was never any trouble between you and that woman about Copeland, was there? If it’s goin’ to make you uncomfortable to stop at her house, why, we won’t do it.”
“Of course not, papa. I hope she understood that I couldn’t help the gossip. It wasn’t my fault.”
“Well, it was nasty, anyhow,” he remarked. “And as you’ve got rid of Copeland, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to let her know it. I guess it won’t be long before that worthless scamp goes to the dump. I’ve got a pretty good line on him and the store. If I was ten years younger, I’d go down there and kick him out and put the house on its feet again.”
He had frequently told her that Copeland-Farley was doing badly, but she supposed this to be only the wail of a retired pilot who thinks his old ship is doomed to disaster without his hand at the wheel. No communications had passed between her and Billy since the day of Grace Kinney’s party. She persuaded herself that she could face Billy Copeland’s former wife with a good conscience.
“That hound,” began Farley after an interval of silence, “had the brass to try to put her in the wrong—didn’t dare go into court with it, but let it be whispered on the outside to save his own face! There was a man somewhere used to visit here, a friend of his. I guess nobody took any stock in that scandal.”
“Of course, nobody would believe it of her,” said Nan. “I hardly—”
She had begun to say that it was incredible that Billy would have done such a thing, but she caught herself in time.