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--"
"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.
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