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And Olive recounted to her father Kathryn Brenton's catechism concerning Opdyke, her manifest and merciless curiosity, so thinly veiled behind her avowed desire to administer consolation. When she had finished, the doctor shook his wise gray head. "Some women are merely pussy cats, Olive, and some of them are panthers," he said gravely. "I am glad you told me. I'll put the Opdykes on their guard.
Whatever time that Brenton took for visiting the Opdykes, quite as a matter of course he had been lavishing on Reed.
I think the Opdykes owe it to their friends to speak out and end the mystery, and put a stop to all the gossip." "Is there gossip?" Olive queried disdainfully, as she arose. Still seated, Kathryn stared up at her with eyes that were determined to lose no flicker of an answering confession. "Of course. In a case like this, there's bound to be. There's every sort of story floating about.
Of course, one little circle of Brenton's intimates, the Keltridges and the Opdykes and the Dennisons, talked of the matter freely among themselves, discussing causes, watching for effects. They regretted the necessity for change, doubted it, even.
The exceptions included the Opdykes who stayed at home on Reed's account; the Keltridges who remained in mercy to those of the doctor's patients who were too poor to pay the price of a railway ticket to the seashore, even for a day; and Brenton who never, since his wife had left him, had slept a night away from home.
"Olive," he said abruptly, as his daughter came in sight; "can you possibly send off that snippet, and go down to the Opdykes' for an hour?" "I suppose I can. Is anything the matter?" "Yes, and no. There's nothing new, exactly; but they all are getting on their nerves. I've been down there, half the afternoon, trying to steady them; but it is a case where they need a woman. If you can go, Olive?
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