It remained for Caroline Purdie to complete the situation.
One morning at breakfast the story burst upon Maggie's ears. Grace
was too deeply moved and excited to remember her hostility. She
poured out the tale.
It appeared that for many many months Caroline had not been the wife
she should have been. No; there had been a young man, a Mr. Bennett
from London. The whole town had had its suspicions, had raised its
pointing finger, had peeped and peered and whimpered. The only
person who had noticed nothing was Mr. Purdie himself. He must, of
course, have seen that his house was filled with noisy young men and
noisier young women; he must have realised that his bills were high,
that champagne was drunk and cards were played, and that his wife's
attire was fantastically gorgeous. At any rate, if he noticed these
things he said nothing. He was a dull, silent, slow-thinking man,
people said. Then one day he went up to London or rather, in the
manner of the best modern problem play, he pretended to go, returned
abruptly, and discovered Caroline in the arms of Mr. Bennett.
He flung Mr. Bennett out of the bedroom window, breaking his leg and
his nose, and that was why every one knew the story.
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