"I mean what I say," returned Alice with a touch of acerbity. "I am going to be married. What do you mean?"
"But to whom, to whom?" Dita was all impatience.
"To whom? Why, to Hayward Preston, of course. One of your husband's business associates in the West. Surely you knew that?"
"I wish I had Maud by the throat," muttered Dita irrelevantly.
It was twenty minutes later when Maud put her shocked and disgusted head within the door.
"Dita," coldly surveying the two enthusiasts before her, who sat together in jocund amity, "Mrs. Hewston is out here in a state of great perturbation. Do you wish—"
But she got no further, for Mrs. Hewston, in the superiority of her greater bulk, pushed Maud into the room before her and now stood, the picture of pink and white and plump tragedy, on the threshold.
"Oh, Alice, I am glad to find you here," she wailed, advancing further into the room, while Maud discreetly closed the door, not upon herself, oh, no, but behind both of them. "You are always such a support." She sank into the chair Dita pushed toward her. "It's Willoughby, of course." She drew her handkerchief from her bag and mopped her eyes.
"Perdita Hepworth," she abandoned her spineless attitude and sat upright, speaking with vehemence. "I am more ashamed of being here than I can ever make you understand. But Willoughby!" There was resignation in her uplifted eyes, acidity in the purse of her mouth. "He is the dearest, most lovable fellow in the world," she looked at her listeners suspiciously, but meeting no correction, permitted her irritation a natural outlet, "but he is the most obstinate, stupid mule the Lord ever made."
"What is it now, dear?" asked Alice sympathetically.