"You couldn't make me believe Nettie was that kind. We all thought—well, you know how girls carry on today. I'm sure you'll excuse us. We're all li'ble to make mistakes."
The Inquisition turned to Nettie.
"My word, Nettie Day, why didn't you let us know? What on earth did you want to keep it secret for? The whole country'd turned out to Chivaree for you. We haven't had a marriage in a year, and Cyril Stanley is mighty popular with the boys."
Nettie's gaze went slowly around that circle of faces. She wanted to make sure that all might hear her words.
"I ain't married to Cyril Stanley, and he done me no wrong. You got no right to talk his name loose like that."
An exclamatory silence reigned in the room. Mrs. Langdon, her cheeks very flushed, was sitting up, her bright eyes, like a bird's, scanning the faces of her visitors.
"Nettie," her thin, piercing voice was raised, "you forgot my tea, and—and—maybe you ladies'll excuse me today. I'm not well, you know."
For the first time since she had become a convert to her strange philosophy she was admitting illness; but she was doing it in another's behalf.
As the last of the women disappeared through the door, and before the murmur of their voices outside had died out, Mrs. Langdon made a motion of her hands toward Nettie, and the girl ran over, dropped on her knees by the couch and hid her face in her mistress's lap.