“What stories?”
“About you two. I met Mrs. Vivie Patton just now, and she swore me to secrecy, and told me that Mrs. Winnie had told some one that you had made love to her so outrageously that she had to ask you to leave the house.”
Montague shrunk as from a blow. “Oh!” he gasped.
“That’s what she said,” said he.
“It’s a lie!” he cried.
“That’s what I told Mrs. Vivie,” said the other; “it doesn’t sound like you—”
Montague had flushed scarlet. “I don’t mean that!” he cried. “I mean that Mrs. Winnie never said any such thing.”
“Oh,” said Oliver, and he shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe not,” he added. “But I know she’s furious with you about something—everybody’s talking about it. She tells people that she’ll never speak to you again. And what I want to know is, why is it that you have to do things to make enemies of everybody you know?”
Montague said nothing; he was trembling with anger.
“What in the world did you do to her?” began the other. “Can’t you trust me—”