"I'm off now to interview Madam Tufton and bring back her
husband's kit."
In some ways it is a pity Betty isn't a man. She would make a
splendid soldier. I don't think such a thing as fear, physical,
moral, or spiritual, lurks in any recess of Betty's nature. Not
every young woman would brave, without trepidation, a virago who
had cracked a hard-bitten warrior's head with a poker.
"Marigold and I will come with you," I said.
She protested. It was nonsense. Suppose Mrs. Tufton went for
Marigold and spoiled his beauty? No. It was too dangerous. No
place for men. We argued. At last I blew the police-whistle which
I wear on the end of my watch-chain. Marigold came hurrying out of
the house.
"Mrs. Connor is going to take us for a run," said I.
"Very good, sir."
"Your blood be on your own heads," said Betty.
We talked a while of what had happened. Vague stories of the
demoralization of wives left alone with a far greater weekly
income than they had ever handled before had reached our ears. We
had read them in the newspapers. But till now we had never come
across an example. The woman in question belonged to a bad type.
Various dregs from large cities drift into the mills around little
country towns and are the despair of Mayors, curates, and other
local authorities.
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