Moreover, other persons than herself had smilingly nudged each other and referred to the couple as lovers; no one seemed to doubt it—­nor to resent it, which is proof that the world loves a lover when it recognises him as one.

Mrs. Rodney also discovered that Mrs. Medcroft went to her room at nine o’clock, at least three hours before the subdued tete-a-tete came to an end.  The poor thing doubtless was crying her eyes out, decided Mrs. Rodney.

And now, after all this, is it to be considered surprising that the distressed mother of Katherine did not sleep well that night?  Nor should her wakefulness be laid at the door of the tired Mr. Rodney, who was ever a firm and stentorian sleeper.

Morning came, and with it a horseback ride for Brock and Miss Fowler.  That was enough for Mrs. Rodney; she would hold in no longer.  Mrs. Odell-Carney must be told; she, at least, must have the chance to escape before the storm of scandal broke to muddy her immaculate skirts.  Forthwith the considerate hostess appeared before her guest with a headful of disclosures.  She had decided in advance that it would not do to beat about the bush, so to speak; she would come directly to the obnoxious point.

They were in Mrs. Odell-Carney’s sitting-room.  Mr. Odell-Carney was smoking a cigaret on the balcony, just outside the window.  Mrs. Rodney did not know that he was there.  It is only natural that he held himself inhospitably aloof:  Mrs. Rodney bored him to death.  He did not hear all that was poured out between them, but he heard quite enough to cause him something of a pang.  He distinctly heard his wife say things to Mrs. Rodney that she had solemnly avowed she would not say,—­things about the Medcroft baby.

It goes without saying that Mrs. Odell-Carney refused to be surprised by the disclosures.  She calmly admitted that she had suspected Medcroft of being too fond of his sister-in-law, but, she went on cheerfully, why not?  His wife didn’t care a rap for him—­she said rap and nothing else; Mrs. Medcroft had an affair of her own, dear child; she was not so slow as Mrs. Rodney thought, oh, no.  Mrs. Odell-Carney warmed up considerably in defending the not-to-be-pitied Edith.  She said she had liked her from the beginning, and more than ever, now that she had really come to the conclusion that her husband was the kind who sets his wife an example by being a bit divaricating himself.

Mrs. Rodney fairly screeched with horror when she heard that Tootles was “a poor little beggar,” and “all that sort of thing, you know.”

“My dear,” said Mrs. Odell-Carney, hating herself all the time for engaging in the spread of gossip, but femininely unable to withstand the test, “your excellent cousin, Mrs. Medcroft, receives two letters a day from London,—­great, fat letters which take fifteen minutes to read in spite of the fact that they are written in a perfectly huge hand by a man—­a man, d’ye hear?  They’re not from her husband.  He’s here.  He cannot have written them in London, don’t you see?  He—­”