“All!” laughed Mary, letting down her hair as she dropped upon a lounge. “How many were there, pray?”
“Alice wrote me that—”
“Oh, she’s been telling tales, has she? And you believed all she wrote?”
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“Oh, yes, I knew his father, when I was a girl, and I don’t wonder at the son’s being stupid, as you say. He could talk of nothing but horses, I remember. By the way, speaking of horses, what has become of that poor Mr. Smith who was so badly hurt last October?”
“He is still at Elmington, I believe; that is—yes, of course he is there. I mean we left him there.”
“You believe!” laughed Mrs. Rolfe. “Upon my word,” added she, “that is a summary way of disposing of a young man. He must be a nonentity indeed. I often wondered that you never mentioned him in your letters. Alice, on the contrary, could write of no one else. It was the Don did this and the Don said that.”
“Her beloved Charley and Mr. Smith are close friends.”