“I suppose they all know?”
“They do.”
“And every one else?”
“I should think few of your friends would remain in ignorance of it.”
“Ah, well,” said Lavender, “if only I could get Sheila to overlook what is past this once, I should not trouble my dear friends and acquaintances for their sympathy and condolence. By the time I saw them again I fancy they would have forgotten our names.”
There was no doubt of the fact that the news of Sheila’s flight from her husband’s house had traveled very speedily around the circle of Lavender’s friends, and doubtless in due time it reached the ears of his aunt. At all events, Mrs. Lavender sent a message to Ingram, asking him to come and see her. When he went he found the little dry, hard-eyed woman in a terrible passion. She had forgotten all about Marcus Aurelius and the composure of a philosopher, and the effect of anger on the nervous system. She was bolstered up in bed, for she had had another bad fit, but she was brisk enough in her manner and fierce enough in her language.
“Mr. Ingram,” she said, the moment he had entered, “do you consider my nephew a beast?”
“I don’t,” he said.
“I do,” she retorted.
“Then you are quite mistaken, Mrs. Lavender. Probably you have heard some exaggerated story of all this business. He has been very inconsiderate and thoughtless, certainly, but I don’t believe he quite knew how sensitive his wife was; and he is very repentant now, and I know he will keep his promises.”