Mrs. Vansuythen sat down helplessly on the sofa, overborne by the trouble of her questioner.
“He said—I can't remember exactly what he said—but I understood him to say—that is—But, really, Mrs. Boulte, isn't it rather a strange question?”
“Will you tell me what he said?” repeated Mrs. Boulte.
Even a tiger will fly before a bear robbed of her whelps, and Mrs. Vansuythen was only an ordinarily good woman. She began in a sort of desperation: “Well, he said that he never cared for you at all, and, of course, there was not the least reason why he should have, and—and—that was all.”
“You said he swore he had not cared for me. Was that true?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Vansuythen, very softly.
Mrs. Boulte wavered for an instant where she stood, and then fell forward fainting.
“What did I tell you?” said Boulte, as though the conversation had been unbroken. “You can see for yourself she cares for him.” The light began to break into his dull mind, and he went on—“And he—what was he saying to you?”
But Mrs. Vansuythen, with no heart for explanations or impassioned protestations, was kneeling over Mrs. Boulte.
“Oh, you brute!” she cried. “Are all men like this? Help me to get her into my room—and her face is cut against the table. Oh, will you be quiet, and help me to carry her? I hate you, and I hate Captain Kurrell. Lift her up carefully and now—go! Go away!”