I was condemned to sit in the car a
few yards off, an anxious spectator. In a moment's lull of the
argument, Betty interposed:
"Every woman here knows what you have done. You ought to be
ashamed of yourself."
"And you ought to be ashamed of yourself," Mrs. Tufton retorted--
"taking an honest woman's husband away from her."
It was time to interfere. I called out:
"Betty, let us get back. I'll fix the man up with everything he
wants."
At the moment of her turning to me a telegraph boy hopped from his
bicycle on the off-side of the ear and touched his cap.
"I've a telegram for Mrs. Connor, sir. I recognised the car and I
think that's the lady. So instead of going on to the house--"
I cut him short. Yes. That was Mrs. Connor of Telford Lodge. He
dodged round the car and, entering the garden path, handed the
orange-coloured envelope to Betty. She took it from him absent-
mindedly, her heart and soul engaged in the battle with Mrs.
Tufton. The boy stood patient for a second or two.
"Any answer, ma'am?"
She turned so that I could see her face in profile, and
impatiently opened the envelope and glanced at the message. Then
she stiffened, seeming in a curious way to become many inches
taller, and grew deadly white.
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