Mrs. Willoughby and Miss Willoughby—the latter had driven over from her country home to discuss Jane—sat in the library listening to the shrieks of laughter that floated across the hall from the music room, laughter interspersed with the sharp yelping of a dog and bars of music.
“They’ve kept that up,” said Mrs. Willoughby, crisply, “since luncheon.”
“What did you say his name was?” asked Miss Willoughby, whose patent disgust made her look more vinegary than ever.
“She calls him Dick,” said aunt Susan, disdainfully. “His last name is Thomas. A flighty idiot, who talks with a lisp.”
“Where’s the bishop?” demanded the guest, suddenly.
“He’s packing,” answered her sister-in-law, with an air of repressed anger. “Jane took him out in a motor car, some man’s motor car that she came down in, and he came back looking much upset, and said he had to pack and return to town immediately. And he had promised to stay two days!”
“Must have been her doings,” commented Miss Willoughby.
“I don’t know,” said Aunt Susan, drearily. “He did say something about fleeing temptation.”
“The hussy!” Miss Willoughby’s voice expressed virtuous scorn. “Wait until she comes to me.” She closed her lips, grimly.
“I was going to tell you about that,” said her hostess. “Jane has what she calls a job.”