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Chapter I. I Go to Styles
He’sabadlot.Youcansaywhatyouliketome,butrememberwhatI’vetoldyou.He’sabadlot!’”
“Whatdidshesay?”
MissHowardmadeanextremelyexpressivegrimace.
“‘DarlingAlfred’—‘dearestAlfred’—‘wickedcalumnies’—‘wickedlies’—‘wickedwoman’—toaccuseher‘dearhusband!’ThesoonerIleftherhousethebetter.SoI’moff.”
“Butnotnow?”
“Thisminute!”
Foramomentwesatandstaredather.FinallyJohnCavendish,findinghispersuasionsofnoavail,wentofftolookupthetrains.Hiswifefollowedhim,murmuringsomethingaboutpersuadingMrs.Inglethorptothinkbetterofit.
Asshelefttheroom,MissHoward’sfacechanged.Sheleanttowardsmeeagerly.
“Mr.Hastings,you’rehonest.Icantrustyou?”
Iwasalittlestartled.Shelaidherhandonmyarm,andsankhervoicetoawhisper.
“Lookafterher,Mr.Hastings.MypoorEmily.They’realotofsharks—allofthem.Oh,IknowwhatI’mtalkingabout.Thereisn’toneofthemthat’snothardupandtryingtogetmoneyoutofher.I’veprotectedherasmuchasIcould.NowI’moutoftheway,they’llimposeuponher.”
“Ofcourse,MissHoward,”Isaid,“I’lldoeverythingIcan,butI’msureyou’reexcitedandoverwrought.”
Sheinterruptedmebyslowlyshakingherforefinger.
“Youngman,trustme.I’velivedintheworldratherlongerthanyouhave.AllIaskyouistokeepyoureyesopen.You’llseewhatImean.
