"Yes, of course, Rebecca; but, my dear, isn't it rather different for you to go with Dr. Booth?"
Reba wondered exactly why it was different.
"He's a friend of Katherine's," she said.
"Friend! No friend at all! A mere acquaintance."
"But he was at the Parks' that night."
"Oh, everybody's at the Parks'. Even that disgraceful connection of theirs, Marjorie Remington, just about lives there. That's nothing."
"He teaches here," groped Reba.
"Why, of course—of course. Being married doesn't interfere with his teaching here, in the least; nor in his going to the Parks', but it does interfere with his taking you out to dinner. Don't you see, silly? You can't go out dining alone with a married man. It just isn't done."
Reba looked down at her hands folded on her crossed knees. Married! The color left her face as completely as it had flooded it a moment ago. But she made no exclamation of surprise. The self-control she had practiced in the gray house on Chestnut Street stood her in good stead now. She gave way to no expression of pain, as the realization of Louise Bartholomew's information struck home.
"You do forgive me, don't you, Rebecca, for talking like this to you?" asked Louise.
"Of course, of course," Reba replied quietly.
"But I had to. Somebody had to, anyhow. I knew you didn't think much about it, one way or the other, but I must say I think Dr. Booth ought to be choked!"
"Oh, no," murmured Reba, more for the sake of something to say than to defend Chadwick Booth. "It wasn't his fault."
