Mrs. Mount looked steadily out of the window, advanced her chin, drew up her mouth into the grimmest of grim expressions, and said slowly and deliberately, “Yes, Iris Carey fainted,” and then under her voice, in the thinnest of tones, “and Mr. Bang is a fool.”
Mumsie, Sister Mary and myself moved sadly back to our table. Mrs. Mount said good-afternoon, and rustled away.
Naturally the incident was a shock and particularly to me. I have not yet got over the fright Uncle gave me by his remark about the Henry-the-Eighth Palm-room. Now I have this added stress. But I have this consolation, Mumsie does not know that I know Iris.
Mr. Bang came back to his place.
“What ailed the girl?” asked Mumsie.
“A combination of things, I fancy.”
“Of what?”
“Wine, heat, and possibly, chiefly, a cigarette in which there was a little too much opium.”
“Poor girl,” muttered Sister Mary.
“I smelled her breath,” added Mr. Bang, “and it was strong with alcohol.”