"Of course, I wouldn't repeat it everywhere. But I'm sure anything I
say won't go a step further."

Twenty voices replied, "Of course not," with a unanimity which gave it
the effect of a congregational response in the litany.

Mrs. Leveridge, having made terms with her conscience, from all
appearances rather enjoyed the responsibility of enlightening her
audience, "It's her husband."

"Her husband!" cried Susan Fitzgerald protestingly; "why, she hasn't
been married six months."

Mrs. Leveridge's smile showed more than a tinge of patronage.

"If you'd ever been married yourself, Susan, you'd know that six months
was enough, quite enough. If he's that kind of a man, six weeks is
about as long as he can keep on his good behavior."

"He hasn't been beating her, has he?" asked Mrs. Hornblower, her voice
dropping to a thrilled whisper.

"No, I'd call it worse than that, myself. You see when I stopped for
Mis' Thompson, on my way here, I found her crying and taking on
something terrible. She had a letter in her hand, and of course I
s'posed it had brought some bad news that was working her up, and I
begged her to tell me about it so's to ease her mind, you understand.

"Well, she kept on moaning and crying, and at last it all came out. It
seems that when she went to the closet to get down her jacket, a coat
of her husband's fell off the hanger. The pockets was stuffed with
letters, the shiftless way men-folks have, and they went sprawling all
over the floor. She picked up this among the rest. It was addressed
to W. Thompson, at some hotel in Cleveland, and it had been forwarded
to the city office of his firm. And seeing it was a dashing sort of
writing that stretched clear across the envelope, and didn't look a
mite like business, she was curious to know what it was about."

"Now, don't tell me there was anything bad in that letter," implored
Mrs. West. "I always thought young Mr. Thompson had such a nice face."

"Well, if handsome is that handsome does, he hasn't any more looks to
boast of than a striped snake. It was a letter from a girl, a regular
love-letter from start to finish. It opened up with 'Tommy Darling.'"

"But young Mr. Thompson's name is Wilbur," somebody objected.

"I guess the Tommy was pet for Thompson. The envelope was directed to
W. Thompson and you can't squeeze a Tommy out of a W. no matter how
hard you try. The girl, whoever she is, has gone into it with her eyes
open. Two