her?” he asked, a strange wonder clutching at his heart.
“For her Bridge games—her only pleasure. She had bad luck, poor child—she lost—oh, she lost thousands—”
“Mother! What are you saying? Madeleine lost thousands at Bridge!”
“Yes—time and again. I gave her all I had”
“There, there, dear, don’t let’s talk about this now. Let us both try to get some rest.”
“No! I don’t want to rest! I want to talk! Tell me more—tell me all—everything—just as if I had been there. What was this place? Was it a right place?”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure they were all charming people”
The man was nearly beside himself, and said what he thought most likely to soothe her.
“Was it a musicale?”
“No”
But his very voice failed him, and Claudine took up the burden. “It was a Bal Masque, Madame Selden. And Madame, she looked so ravishing in a costume of silks and sequins and jewels”
Mrs. Selden again sat bolt upright and pointed her finger at Barham.
“And you sent her—my child—to the—oh, to the terrible funeral place, in that gewgaw costume!”
It was the first time Barham had realized this. It was terrible! Madeleine in her casket, in that gaudy robe! But he had been so engrossed in other and to him graver matters, he hadn’t even thought of that.
“How horrible!” Mrs. Selden broke out again. “How ghastly! You care nothing for my sensibilities. Go—go at once, and take proper clothing.”
“I will, mother,” the distressed man said, humbly. “What shall it be? A little white gown?”
