“Er—yes,” Farleigh rose out of the swing altogether this time. “Yes, I suppose it is. Shall we walk a little, Mrs. Budd? I feel rather—rather cramped.”
“You don’t look as though you’d ever felt a pain in your life,” said Mrs. Budd admiringly, as they started down the big hall hung with apparatus, “but then I s’pose you keep outdoors a lot, and don’t let yourself be ruined by this s’ciety life. Mis’ Holt was readin’ me out of last Sunday’s fashion supplement how a preacher had said the word for Washington s’ciety was ‘hectic,’ and we looked it up, at the Tuesday readin’ of the Browning class, an’ I guess he’s right, Mrs. Chalmers. Washington s’ciety’s hectic.”
“They call it so many things,” murmured Farleigh; busy in avoiding a punching-ball, she spoke again truthfully, to the little woman—almost friendly, in her nonchalance, to the janitor’s wife.
“But I don’t take no stock in it, do you?” pursued Mrs. Budd. “Seems as though it’s just like this room full o’ climbin’ machines—an’ somebody liable to fall off the trapeze an’ bust his head open, any time—half way up or at the top; y’ can’t tell nothin’ about it. I’m glad you let it alone, Mrs. Chalmers. This paper said one woman—it didn’t give her name—one woman had gone so far’s to—look out for that movin’ staircase, Mis’ Chalmers—they’re awful treacherous: they pretend to be takin’ you up all the time an’ then before you know it, they throw you—had gone so far as to make a name for herself, in the line o’ intrigue,” continued Mrs. Budd, her soft voice hushed with excitement; “she didn’t need nothin’ as far as climb goes, it said, she just liked pullin’ the ropes because she done it so well. It said they call her——”
“Mrs. Budd, do you see anything of Mr. Pix?” asked Farleigh, two red spots glowing in her cheeks.
“No—but he’ll be along presently. Don’t fret, he ’n’ your husband’s probably met and ’re having a shindy with Budd down below. Men ’re gossipy creatures. I was goin’ to tell you, they call that woman the Spanish Cat—’cause she slides in an’ out o’ things so easy, and looks that Spanish kind. You’re real dark too, aren’t you, Mrs. Chalmers? My, but your husband must be proud of you!” the little woman in the plaid dress looked up wistfully.—“Why, Mis’ Chalmers, what’s the matter?”
For Mrs. Chalmers looked as though she was going to cry. She also looked furiously angry, and—Mrs. Budd gasped—very beautiful. “Mrs. Chalmers, I—I do hope I haven’t said nothin’ to hurt your feelings,” faltered the little janitor’s wife.
“No”—with a ringing laugh Farleigh dashed her hand to her eyes—“oh, no, Mrs. Budd. I—shan’t we sit down on this unmoving staircase and wait?—So you don’t think much of the Spanish Cat?” she questioned, as Mrs. Budd sat down. “You think she’s—er—rather a fool?”
“I think they’ll come a day when she’ll get caught, in one o’ these slides,” said Mrs. Budd, delighted to settle to a cosy chat, “an’ then that’ll be the end of her. Just the same, she must be a real clever woman, Mrs. Chalmers, and then, my dear—as I told Mis’ Holt—there must be somethin’ the matter with her husband. No woman would take to pullin’ wires for a job, if her husband was the man he should be. Prob’ly he’s some lazy, no account s’ciety man, this——”
“No, Mrs. Budd,” Farleigh sat very erect, “I—I’m sure you’re mistaken,” she added less hastily, “he—her husband isn’t no account, or—you see, such a clever woman wouldn’t have married him!” Yes, watching that smile of hers, Mrs. Budd declared she was beautiful.