“I don’t,” said Henrietta, justly enough. “She is in a fearful position,—I don’t resent her saying to me what she did,—she’s really irresponsible.”
“But what can be the explanation?” urged Gerty. “You needn’t imply that Kimball has hidden himself purposely, for I know that isn’t so. He is desperately in love with Elsie,—desperately—”
“Of course he is,” said Elsie, coolly, as she returned, ready for the street. “Come along, Henrietta.”
Not a word was spoken between the two women as they rode to the Webb house.
Inquiringly, Elsie looked at Mrs. Webb, who was in the drawing room, distractedly pacing up and down.
Her greeting was not affectionate; indeed, Elsie seemed to detect a shade of relief in the elder woman’s face, a satisfaction, she quickly thought, that the wedding could not take place.
“Where is he?” she cried, but Mrs. Webb only shook her head, and Elsie felt herself dismissed.
“Where is he?” she repeated; “I have a right to ask! I am his promised wife,—his bride! Where is my bridegroom?”
“Gone!” said Mrs. Webb, in a vague, faraway tone. “Gone for ever, Elsie.”
“Oh, fiddlesticks! That he isn’t! I’m going up to his room,—I want to see how he did get out.”