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"Well," said Nan, "she was probably in love with him."

"But I'm coming to the most dreadful part.... The wretched man had a wife and two squalling filthy little babies. They came round to the theatre and made a dreadful scene, a horrid coarse woman just like an immigrant.... And he is nothing but a common laborer, just think of it. O, how can people do such things? It just makes me sick to think of that lovely girl in the power of that horrible garlic-smelling ruffian.... It just makes me sick to think of it."

Miss Fitzhugh caught up the last yellow liquid on her plate with several swift scraping little strokes of her spoon. She started delving with two fingers in the back compartment of her alligatorskin purse.

"Just think of it, Nancibel, a common laborer. If he'd been a musician or a composer or something it would have been different even if he was an Italian, but ... O, Nancibel, won't you please let me have your hanky a sec I declare I've lost mine."

Nan handed over her handkerchief.