Betty paused by a rocking chair of black walnut that was upholstered in crimson plush; fingered the crimson fringe. Mrs. Boatwright was marking out a geometrical pattern on the back of an envelope; frowning down at it. The silence grew heavy.
Finally Mrs. Boatwright, never light of hand, rame out with:
“This Mr. Brachey—who is he?”
Betty's fringed lids moved swiftly up; dropped again. “He—he's a writer, a journalist.”
“You knew him on the ship?”
“Yes.”
“You knew him pretty well?”
“I—saw something of him.”
“Do you know why he came out here?”
Betty was silent.