“Thank God, I told him!”
She realized, as never before, the tremendous comfort and convenience of the truth. She had been by instinct as veracious as a politely bred person may be, but now she understood that the truth is mighty good business. She resolved to deal in no other wares.
This resolution lasted just long enough for her to make a hasty exception: she would begin her exclusive use of the truth as soon as she had told Polly a neat lie in explanation of her inexplicable journey to Baltimore.
Lady C.-W. was doing Mamise the best turn in her power. Davidge was still angry at Mamise’s flippancy in the face of his ardor. But Lady C.-W.’s attack gave the flirt the dignity of martyrdom. When Lady C.-W. finished her subtly casual account of all that Mamise had done or been accused of doing, Davidge crushed her with the quiet remark:
“So she told me.”
“She told you that!”
“Yes, and explained it all!”
“She would!” was the best that Lady Clifton-Wyatt could do, but she saw that the case was lost. She saw that Davidge’s gaze was following Mamise here and there amid the dancers, and she was sportswoman enough to concede:
“She is a beauty, anyway––there’s no questioning that, at least.”