“Yes, let us go,” she panted, and when they were outside she walked so rapidly that he had difficulty in keeping pace with her. She was silent, and he knew better than to question, but when they arrived at her house he entered, took off his overcoat, and turned up the light in the tiny parlor. She flung her wraps over a chair, storming back and forth like a little fury. Her eyes were starry with tears of anger, her face was flushed, her hands worked nervously. He leaned against the mantel, watching her through his cigar smoke.
“You needn’t tell me,” he said, at length. “I know all about it.”
“I am glad you do. I never could repeat what they said. Oh, it was brutal!” Her voice caught and she bit her lip. “What made me ask them? Why didn’t I keep still? After you left, I went to those women and faced them. Oh, but they were brutal! Yet, why should I care?” She stamped her slippered foot.
“I shall have to kill that man some day,” he said, flecking his cigar ashes into the grate.
“What man?” She stood still and looked at him.
“Glenister, of course. If I had thought the story would ever reach you, I’d have shut him up long ago.”
“It didn’t come from him,” she cried, hot with indignation. “He’s a gentleman. It’s that cat, Mrs. Champian.”
He shrugged his shoulders the slightest bit, but it was eloquent, and she noted it. “Oh, I don’t mean that he did it intentionally—he’s too decent a chap for that—but anybody’s tongue will wag to a beautiful girl! My lady Malotte is a jealous trick.”
“Malotte! Who is she?” Helen questioned, curiously.
He seemed surprised. “I thought every one knew who she is. It’s just as well that you don’t.”