There was a hard abruptness in Betty Steel’s voice. She was leaning forward with her hand on the window-sill, her face curiously changed in its expression from the purring contentment of two minutes ago.
“I see a solitary female, dear.”
“Don’t you recognize her?”
Miss Ellison gave a quaint and expressive little whistle.
“No, surely, it can’t be!”
“Kate Murchison.”
“By George, dear, it is!”
The two friends watched the figure in black disappear under the old gate-house that stood at the northwest corner of the square. For Madge Ellison there was nothing more inspiriting than curiosity in the event. To Betty Steel that passing glimpse had opened up all the hatred of the past.
“What’s in your mind, Madge?”
Miss Ellison was buttoning her gloves.