Pinky had drawn aside a close veil, exhibiting a bruised and swollen face. A dark band lay under one of her eyes, and there was a cut with red, angry margins on the cheek.
“You are an object,” repeated Mrs. Bray as Pinky moved forward into the room.
“Well, I am, and no mistake,” answered Pinky, with a light laugh. She had been drinking enough to overcome the depression and discomfort of her feelings consequent on the hard usage she had received and a night in one of the city station-houses. “Who's in there?”
Mrs. Bray's finger went again to her lips. “No matter,” was replied. “You must go away until the coast is clear. Come back in half an hour.”
And she hurried Pinky out of the door, locking it as the girl retired. When Mrs. Dinneford came out of the room into which he had gone so hastily, the roll of bank-notes still lay upon the floor. Mrs. Bray had prudently slipped them into her pocket before admitting Pinky, but as soon as she was alone had thrown them down again.
The face of Mrs. Dinneford was pale, and exhibited no ordinary signs of discomfiture and anxiety.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“A friend,” replied Mrs. Bray, in a cold, self-possessed manner.
A few moments of embarrassed silence followed. Mrs. Bray crossed the room, touching with her foot the bank-bills, as if they were of no account to her.
“I am half beside myself,” said Mrs. Dinneford.