"No, come and have tea at mine. I shall expect you between half-past four and five."
And then Mrs. Whittaker went out, passed down the tessellated covered way and turned her face toward the station, conscious that she had that day graduated as a first-class liar. Well, if she had lied, she had lied in a good cause. If she had succeeded in restoring the faith of her child in husband and father, she had lied to some purpose, and surely the recording angel would drop showers of tears over the spot, and it would be blotted out forever. Her thoughts had reached this point when she reached the ticket office. She had to stand and wait for some time while two ladies fumbled with their purses, and while they discussed whether they would travel first or second.
"First-class to Baker Street--oh, yes, it's horrid on that line, I always go first to Baker Street--and, my dear, if I didn't meet him the very next day, walking along with a creature--oh! Twopence more? Thank you, I'm so sorry to give you so much trouble--yes, I met him walking with a bold, brazen hussy, and I never saw a man looking so crestfallen as Mr. Whittaker did when he saw me."
There was a little waiting-room hard by the ticket office and Regina turned sharply round and took refuge in this dingy little retreat.
"My dear!" said the lady who had been listening to the one who had mentioned Mr. Whittaker's name, "you have done the most awful thing you ever did in your life. Mrs. Whittaker was standing just behind you, and she heard every word you said."
"Poor woman! Did she, really? I _am_ sorry! Well, I never believe in making mischief between husband and wife, but it's a shame, and I do think that a man who is carrying on a double game ought to be found out."
There is a certain class of woman who loves a fracas of any kind.
The waiting-room at Northampton Park boasted of no attendant, so Regina was able to sit down by the bare mahogany table and wait until the storm which possessed her had passed by. Poor Regina! The first thought that came to her was that after all she had lied to no purpose. It was no small thing to a woman of her sturdy and open mind that she had spun a perfect tissue of lies to her own child. She knew that she had lied in a double sense, for she had not deceived Julia, and she knew now that others were on the track of Alfred's wrongdoings. She was shaking now, shaking like a leaf, and as she sat there, her sad eyes roaming over the customary literature that one finds on the table of a suburban waiting-room, she wished she had been left in her fool's paradise. She realized with a great shock the truth of the old saw, "If ignorance is bliss, 'twere folly to be wise." Yes, she would rather have been left in her fool's paradise! But there, since the outer world was already talking of Alfred's doings, it was small wonder that she had lit upon the truth also.