her finger-nail she followed the burst seam of the dark pigskin purse that slid about on her shiny alpaca lap. "But girls talk, you know. You mustn't blame them."
She seemed to be caught in a thicket of embarrassment, and sat staring up at the azalea.
With the hardness of a woman who sees before her the curse of women's lives, a domestic row, Kitty said that she took no interest in servants' gossip.
"Oh, it isn't—" her eyes brimmed as though we had been unkind—"servants' gossip that I wanted to talk about. I only mentioned Gladys"—she continued to trace the burst seam of her purse—"because that's how I heard you didn't know."
"What don't I know?"
Her head drooped a little.
"About Mr. Baldry. Forgive me, I don't know his rank."
"Captain Baldry," supplied Kitty, won-
