“And I’m very glad to see you, Mrs. Curtis,” answered Beatrice, warmly, as she helped her off with her wraps.
“Joe said you wouldn’t want to see me,” went on Mrs. Curtis, picking out a comfortable chair and seating her two hundred odd pounds in it very gingerly. “Joe also said I must not allude to your troubles—Mercy on us!”—greatly embarrassed—“well, the murder’s out—good gracious!”
Her consternation was so ludicrous that Beatrice smiled as she pulled a chair forward. Mrs. Curtis’ faculty for making “breaks” was well known among her friends.
Short of stature, her weight made her waddle when she walked, and no art of any dressmaker could give her a waist line. Boasting as she did of a long line of ancestors, whose names were illustrious in American history, she considered she could do as she pleased, live where she pleased, and associate with whom she pleased. Her manners could not always be relied on; they were apt to vary with the state of her digestion. Abrupt and often overbearing at times, she had, however, two traits of character shared by few—loyalty and the courage of her convictions.
She had always been fond of Beatrice, and some recent gossip about the Trevors coming to her ears that afternoon had made her very angry. She championed their cause at once, to the consternation of the two worthy women who, having repeated the gossip, wilted under her indignant glance. Hence the determined assault on the Trevors’ front door.
“Tea!” she exclaimed, overhearing Beatrice’s order to Wilkins. “My dear, don’t have it on my account. I detest the stuff. A glass of sherry and a biscuit will do me more good than anything else you can offer.”
“How is the Secretary?” asked Beatrice, placing the decanter and biscuits which had been quickly forthcoming, before her guest.
“Very well, barring an attack of gout. I told him it was a case of suppressed kicking against the powers that be on Capitol Hill. I met your father on the street this morning. He looks dreadfully, poor man. Is there any truth in this rumor of his resigning?” casting a keen glance at the unconscious girl.
“No truth at all,” Beatrice answered emphatically. “We may both go to Atlantic City for a week, but that is the only time father will be away from his office until June. I can’t imagine how such a report started.”
“Washington is a hotbed of rumors always,” retorted Mrs. Curtis. “What people don’t know, they make up. But I did not come here to talk about my neighbors’ shortcomings, but to ask if you won’t go motoring with me as soon as the condition of the streets permits. You need to be out in the fresh air,” and she patted Beatrice’s thin cheeks. The somber black garb enhanced her pallor, but for all that Mrs. Curtis decided in her own mind that she had seldom seen her look more lovely. “If that man has been playing fast and loose with her affections,” she thought, “I’ll—I’ll give him a piece of my mind.” It was no idle threat. Those who had experienced a piece of her gray matter would rather have faced a Gatling gun; at least, the end came swiftly.