e my memory of the lady's torrential speech.
"Lay your hand on me," she cried, "and I'll summons you for assault."

As Marigold could not pass her without laying hands on her, and as the
laying of hands on her, no matter how lightly, would indubitably have
constituted an assault in the eyes of the law, Marigold stiffly
confronted her and tried to argue.

The neighbours listened in sardonic amusement. Betty stood by, with the
spots burning on her cheek, clenching her slender capable fingers,
furious at defeat. I was condemned to sit in the car a few yards off,
an anxious spectator. In a moment's lull of the argument, Betty
interposed:

"Every woman here knows what you have done. You ought to be ashamed of
yourself."

"And you ought to be ashamed of yourself," Mrs. Tufton
retorted--"taking an honest woman's husband away from her."

It was time to interfere. I called out:

"Betty, let us get back. I'll fix the man up with everything he wants."

At the moment of her turning to me a telegraph boy hopped from his
bicycle on the off-side of the ear and touched his cap.

"I've a telegram for Mrs. Connor, sir. I recognised the car and I think
that's the lady. So instead of going on to the house--"

I cut him short. Yes. That was Mrs. Connor of Telford Lodge. He dodged
round the car and, entering the garden path, handed the orange-coloured
envelope to Betty. She took it from him absent-mindedly, her heart and
soul engaged in the battle with Mrs. Tufton. The boy stood patient for
a second or two.

"Any answer, ma'am?"

She turned so that I could see her face in profile, and impatiently
opened the envelope and glanced at the message. Then she stiffened,
seeming in a curious way to become many inches taller, and grew deadly
white. The paper dropped from her hand. Marigold picked it up.

The diversion of the telegraph boy had checked Mrs. Tufton's eloquence
and compelled the idle interest of the neighbours. I cried out from the
car:

"What's the matter?"

But I don't think Betty heard me. She recovered herself, took the
telegram from Marigold, and showed it to the woman.

"Read it," said Betty, in a strange, hard voice. "This is to tell me
that my husband was killed yesterday in France. Go on your knees and
thank God that you have a brave husband still alive and pray that you
may be worthy of him."

She went into the house and in a moment reappeared like a ghost of
steel, carrying the disputed canvas kit-bag over