Mrs. Trench was waiting for her son. She had dallied too long with that
warning. She was in the door of the sun room at the first sound of his
key in the lock.
“Larimore!” as he crossed the hall and made for the stairs.
“Yes, mamma. Why aren’t you in bed?”
“I have something to say to you. I don’t often meddle in your affairs;
but there come times when it is a mother’s duty to speak. I wish you
would be a little more careful in your associations with that Mrs.
Ascott. She isn’t the pure, virtuous woman we thought her. She told
me--in the most brazen way--that her husband ran away to Africa with
another woman. Though what anybody would want to go to Africa for-- But
he wasn’t entirely to blame for leaving her. She had an affair with
another man. A low scoundrel who pretended to be her husband’s friend.
She told me, without the least bit of shame, that the only thing that
saved her from breaking her marriage vow was--her father catching up
with them, when the axle of their automobile broke--before they reached
the yacht that they were going to Italy in ... alone ... not a touring
party. Alone!”
The words poured forth in a disorderly phalanx. Larimore stood
patiently waiting until the need for breath stopped her utterance. Then
he said incisively:
“So there was a broken axle.”
And in a flash Lavinia knew that she had lifted a load of doubt and
misery from her son’s mind--had destroyed, with her revelation, the
barrier that stood between him and Judith Ascott. He could hear the
grinding of her sharp teeth as he turned and ascended the stairs.