Irritated by this mummery and hesitation. Nevius got from his seat. “I don’t know what can have occurred to you, but if you fancy for one instant that anything, even platonism, exists between Ablaut and Jenny Adulam, I may just as well tell you that you are off, ‘way off.’ ”
“I should think so;” and Jones smiled in his beard. “No, indeed. Wait a second, dear boy. No, indeed, I never gave the matter a thought. But that subject of platonism now is really very interesting. Speaking in the abstract of course, I believe in it, but not as you do. I think that the affection a nice girl may have for a man who is neither her brother nor her lover, a man I mean with whom she is constantly thrown in contact, is often of that order. But it is different with the man. It seems to me that however pure at heart he may be, however honest in intention, nature is apt to resent that negation of sex. And it is for that reason that platonic affection, or, more exactly, reciprocal platonism, is discoverable only among married people. Nature having had her way, has no slights to resent, and occupies herself, if at all, in directing the attention of the parties to the possibility of other enterprises. In such circumstances there are women who, noting in their husbands a decreasing desire for the pleasures of the tête-à-tête, appeal to the courts. There are others astute enough to understand that it is not in the nature of man to subsist on a single dish, and sufficiently refined not to give that bit of information to the newspapers. But there are also women whose fastidiousness is such that they are the first to desire a change in the menu. When this occurs there are husbands that return to the animal state and shriek for blood; there are others of finer breed who collaborate with their wives in an effort to observe the courtesies and amenities of civilized life while agreeing that individual tastes shall suffer no interference. Now there you have true platonism, the ideal state in which the ancients instructed us, the—”
“Ideal state of pigsty,” Nevius gruffly interrupted. “What’s all this rubbish you are rehearsing on me?”
Amused and vatic, Jones set about polishing an eyeglass.
“Rubbish, is it, dear boy? Well, perhaps; but then we have been merely exchanging ideas. Do have a liquor.”
“No. I’m off. Good night.”
Jones watched him go and nodded confidentially to himself. “Le ménage a trois, c’est encore joli. Mais à quatre! Non, c’est d’un pur!”
V
Mrs. Carol’s return was unheralded. One evening after a dinner at the Downtown Club. Nevius found her entrancing as an angel, but far better garbed, outstretched in the drawing room. From beneath the hem of the skirt the gold clockwork of a stocking glistened, the blue eyes that met his own were languid and sultry, and as he bent over to kiss her there rose to greet him the fresh odors of iris and of health.
“There, don’t muss me up.”
Unabashed Nevius drew a chair to where she lay, and taking her hand held it in his own.
“I can never tell you how glad I am. And I have wanted you so. You enjoyed yourself, I hope. Tell me all about it. Are you glad to be back?”
Mrs. Nevius withdrew the hand he held, and with two fingers patted a yawn.
“Of course I am glad to be back. Carol, do be careful,” she admonished, for he had bent toward her again. “There’s someone there. Of course I am glad to be back. I hate living in a trunk. What is it, Rebecca?”
The servant had entered; a note on a tray.
“A letter for you, mem. And there’s an answer, mem.”
Nevius moved his chair. His wife stood up and went forward to a lamp. There she turned.
“You are not going out, are you?”
And as Nevius shook his head, she made a motion to the servant.
“I will ring.”
The woman left the room, and Mrs. Nevius, seating herself at the escritoire, busied herself with pen and paper.
“Whom is it from, Hilda?”
The question must have entangled her thoughts. She took the sheet on which she was writing, tore it up and tossed it aside.
“How can I write if you keep talking to me?” she asked almost piteously. “It’s from Frances.”
Frances was her sister, Mrs. Montrion, and as Nevius gathered up the Post and tried to lose himself in the advertisements, the name evoked a series of incidents that were not at all to his taste. There was the liaison with a dyspeptic boor, which, however, had interested him remotely, if at all, until Mrs. Montrion took it into her head to have herself and the cavaliere servente chaperoned by Hilda during a trip abroad. At that he had rebelled, and his rebellion had not been lessened on learning the object, which was to enable the Snaiths, during Mrs. Montrion’s absence, to secure evidence against that lady’s husband, whereby she might obtain a divorce and marry her lover. But the plot had fallen through. Montrion was not a man to be trifled with, and his wife grew timorous of results. Then, too, the cavaliere servente after the fashion of his kind, had bestowed his services elsewhere. The subject was not agreeable, and to dismiss it Nevius tried to lose himself in the columns of the Post. Before he succeeded, the answer was written, dispatched as well, and Hilda returned to the sofa.
Nevius threw the paper aside. “If you are glad to be back,” he began with a bad attempt at banter, “at least you are not enthusiastic.”
“But what do you expect? Here I am tired out, and besides
