“That's why he'd be the ideal witness,” said Charity.
“But would he come?”
“Of course not,” she laughed. “There's no use of carrying this further. I've had all I can stand to-night. Let me go.”
As usual with people who have had all they can stand, Charity wanted some more. She glanced at the receiver, curious as to what winged words had flown unattended during her parley with Hodshon.
She put the receiver to her ear and fell back. Again she was greeted with clamor. They were quarreling ferociously.
That might mean either of two things: there are the quarrels that enemies maintain, and those that devoted lovers wage. The latter sort are perhaps the bitterer, the less polite. Charity could not learn what had started the wrangle between those two.
Slowly it died away. Zada's cries turned to sobs, and her tirade to sobs.
“You don't love me. Go back to her. You love her still.”
“No, I don't, honey. I just don't want her name brought into our conversation. It doesn't seem decent, somehow. It's like bringing her in here to listen to our quarrels. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm trying not to, but you're so peculiarly hard to keep peace with lately. What's the reason, darling?”
Charity was smitten with a fear more terrible than any yet. She heard its confirmation. Zada whispered: