It was not as bad a wound as she had at first thought, and the blood was only oozing now. “And yet you still live, Butterfly. ” She looked at him quizzically. ‘Speak, then. How are you?” “I’m fine,” she said, unaware of all events except for the voice on the other line. He could not see these two shrinking misses capering about in a nun’s habit and brandishing a defiant pistol. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. ‘Get out! Out, I say! Think I want another miserable cowardly good-for-nothing wastrel on my hands? Begone! Out of my house!’ He drove them to the door, grimly satisfied when the girl’s nerve broke. It must have cut him. If there is, it’s a mere wrapping—there’s better underneath. She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially.
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