“I beg p-p-pardon,” stuttered the man. “Are you Mr. Blair? I’m Mrs. Kent.”
At this astonishing announcement, amusement gleamed in the woman’s eyes, and gave a delicate up-twist to the corners of the soft mouth.
“I don’t recognize you in your present attire, Mrs. Kent,” she murmured.
“No. Of course not. I—I—meant to say—that is you know—” Kent gathered his forces, resolved desperately to see it through, now. “I’m M-M-Mrs. Blair and I suppose you’re Mr. Kent.”
The soft music of her laughter made Kent savage. “Damn!” he muttered beneath his breath; and then went direct to the point. “There are things I want to speak to you about. I wish to get on your car.”
“Certainly not,” replied she decisively. “I do not know you.”
“I am a friend of Francis Sedgwick’s.”
The warm blood flushed her cheeks rose-color, and died away. Her lips quivered. So much of mute helpless misery did her face show, that Kent’s embarrassment vanished.
“Try to believe me,” he said earnestly, “when I tell you that I wish only to save both of you misunderstanding and suffering. Needless misunderstanding and suffering,” he added.
“It is too late,” she said hopelessly.