“I see,” inserted Mrs. Rodney, who was afraid that Mrs. Odell-Carney might think she didn’t see.

“Mind your Mrs. Rodney, I’m terribly cut up about all this.  She has—­”

“Oh, I knew you would be,” mourned Mrs. Rodney, her heart in her boots.  “You must just hate me for exposing you to—­”

“Rubbish!” scoffed the other.  “It isn’t that.  I’ve been through a dozen affairs in which my best friends were frightfully—­er—­complicated.  I meant to say that I’m terribly cut up over poor Mrs. Medcroft.  She’s a dear.  Believe me, she’s a most delicious sinner.  Even Carney says that, and he’s very fastidious—­and very loyal.”

“They are married in name only,” said Mrs. Rodney, beginning to sniffle.  She looked up and smiled wanly through her tears.  “You know what I mean.  My grammar is terrible when I’m nervous.”  She pulled at her handkerchief for a wavering moment.  “Do you think I’d better speak to Edith?  We may be able to prevent the divorce.”

“Divorce, my dear,” gasped Mrs. Odell-Carney incredulously.

At this juncture Mr. Odell-Carney emerged from his shell, so to speak.  He stalked through the window and confronted the two ladies, one of whom, at least, was vastly dismayed by his sudden appearance.

“Now, see here,” he began without preliminary apology, “I won’t hear of a divorce.  That’s all rubbish—­perfect rot, ’pon my soul.  Wot’s the use?  Hang it all, Mrs. Rodney, wot’s the odds, so long as all parties are contented?  We can stand it, by Jove, if they can, don’t you know.  We can’t regulate the love affairs of the universe.  Besides, I’m not going to stand by and see a friend dragged into a thing of this sort—­”

“A friend, Carney,” exclaimed his wife.

“Well, it’s possible, my dear, that he may be a friend.  I know so many chaps in London who might be doing this sort of thing, don’t you know.  Who knows but the chap who’s writing her these letters may be one of my best friends?  It doesn’t pay to take a chance on it.  I won’t hear to it.  If Medcroft knows and his wife knows and Miss Fowler knows, why the deuce should we bother our heads about it?  Last night I heard the Medcroft infant bawling its lungs out—­teething, I daresay—­but did I go in and take a hand in straightening out the poor little beggar?  Not I. By the same token, why should I or anybody else presume to step in and try to straighten out the troubles of its parents?  It’s useless interference, either way you take it.”

“I think it’s all very entertaining and diverting,” said Mrs. Odell-Carney carelessly.  She yawned.

“Do you really think so?” asked the doubting Mrs. Rodney.  “I was so afraid you’d mind.  Your position in society, my dear Mrs.—­”

“My position in society, Mrs. Rodney, can weather the tempest you predict,” said Mrs. Odell-Carney with a smile that went to Mrs. Rodney’s marrow.

“Oh, if—­if you really don’t mind—­” she mumbled apologetically.