u 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."

"They are married in name only," said Mrs. Rodney, beginning to sniffle.
She looked up and smiled wanly through her tears. "You know what I
mean. My grammar is terrible when I'm nervous." She pulled at her
handkerchief for a wavering moment. "Do you think I'd better speak to
Edith? We may be able to prevent the divorce."

"Divorce, my dear," gasped Mrs. Odell-Carney incredulously.

At this juncture Mr. Odell-Carney emerged from his shell, so to speak.
He stalked through the window and confronted the two ladies, one of
whom, at least, was vastly dismayed by his sudden appearance.

"Now, see here," he began without preliminary apology, "I won't hear of
a divorce. That's all rubbish--perfect rot, 'pon my soul. Wot's the use?
Hang it all, Mrs. Rodney, wot's the odds, so long as all parties are
contented? We can stand it, by Jove, if they can, don't you know. We
can't regulate the love affairs of the universe. Besides, I'm not going
to stand by and see a friend dragged into a thing of this sort--"

"A friend, Carney," exclaimed his wife.

"Well, it's possible, my dear, that he may be a friend. I know so many
chaps in London who might be doing this sort of thing, don't you know.
Who knows but the chap who's writing her these letters may be one of my
best friends? It doesn't pay to take a chance on it. I won't hear to it.
If Medcr