"Sampson just gave me a note. He said Sally's orders were that they were not to be delivered until you came in. Neale, the child must be mad—"
"Sit down," he said in a hard tone. "Speculation doesn't get us anywhere. "We've got to talk it over."
She dropped on a seat under the Blue Window, but none of its peace entered into her soul. "Go on."
"Meriweather ought to be shot. He's a hound." Winslow still wore his shooting jacket; his bag of birds was in the hall below. "Does Carew know?" he asked. "Or any one?"
"No. Sally says in her note she will leave it to you to tell the world whatever you will."
He was savage. "What can I tell?"
He was thinking with sensitive agony how the world would laugh at him! Young beauty, it would say, had scorned him. Merry's golden eyes and golden youth had outweighed the moneybags of the old man. He should have known better than to believe in the love of May for December.
He made a quick decision. "I don't want the reporters down here until I have something to talk about. Just keep your mouth shut, Ethel, until after dinner."
He was not polite. He didn't want to be. He felt that in some way Ethel must be culpable. She should have brought Sally up better. To be obedient.
"I don't see how I can face them all." Ethel was struggling with a touch of hysteria. "They'll be sure to ask about Sally."
He considered that. "Very well. I'll send you off to town in my motor. You can say Sally wanted you to join her. What reason did she give for going in?"
