This time the man looked up.
“She didn’t say anything, intimate anything, I hope?” he hesitated.
“Of course not. It isn’t her way. She’s—queer for a woman, Elice is; she never gets confidential, no matter how good an opportunity you offer.” A pause followed that spoke volumes. “Agnes Simpson, though, says there is something the matter—with Steve at least. They’re talking about it in the department.”
“Talking about what, Margery?” soberly. “He’s a friend of ours, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” the voice was swift with a pent-up secret, “and we’ve tried hard to be nice to him; but, after all, we’re not to blame that he—drinks!”
“Margery!” It was open disapproval this time, a thing unusual for Harry Randall. “We mustn’t listen to such gossip, either of us. Steve and I have been chums for years and years and—we simply mustn’t listen to such things at all.” 119
For an instant the girl was silent; then the brown head tossed rebelliously.
“Well, I can’t help it if people talk; and it isn’t fair of you to suppose that I pass it on either—except to you. You know that I—” she checked herself. “It isn’t as though Agnes was the only one either,” she defended. “I’ve heard it several times lately.” Inspiration came and she looked at her husband directly. “Honest, Harry, haven’t you heard it too?”
The man hesitated, and on the instant solid ground vanished from beneath his feet.
“Yes, I have,” he admitted weakly. “It’s a burning shame too that people will concoct—” He halted suddenly, listening. His eyes went to the clock. “I had no idea it was so late,” he digressed as the bell rang loudly. “That’s Steve now. I know his ring.”