Vanderlip?"
Mrs. Eppingwell's voice, though flute-like and low, predicated will in
its every cadence.
The man looked his gratitude. He, at least, was willing enough.
"I'm very sorry," from Freda. "There isn't time. He must come at once."
The conventional phrases dropped easily from her lips, but she could not
forbear to smile inwardly at their inadequacy and weakness. She would
much rather have shrieked.
"But, Miss Moloof, who are you that you may possess yourself of Mr.
Vanderlip and command his actions?"
Whereupon relief brightened his face, and the man beamed his approval.
Trust Mrs. Eppingwell to drag him clear. Freda had met her match this
time.
"I--I--" Freda hesitated, and then her feminine mind putting on its
harness--"and who are you to ask this question?"
"I? I am Mrs. Eppingwell, and--"
"There!" the other broke in sharply. "You are the wife of a captain, who
is therefore your husband. I am only a dancing girl. What do you with
this man?"
"Such unprecedented behavior!" Mrs. McFee ruffled herself and cleared for
action, but Mrs. Eppingwell shut her mouth with a look and developed a
new attack.
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