From the stair came a rustle of silk, the sound of a footfall that he knew. As yet he had no plan. But as he became aware that Mrs. Montrion’s sister was entering the room he stood up. His lips may have been a trifle compressed, but otherwise he had his everyday air; he looked well groomed, sedate, anxious, if at all, merely that dinner should not be too long delayed.
Mrs. Nevius passed through the curtains, the light shuttling her hair, illuminating the rose of her mouth. In her blue eyes were evocations of summer, and beneath them, on her cheeks, on the lobes of her ears, health had placed its token in pink. She was adorably dressed, adorably constructed, and dressed and constructed to be adored. In one hand was a fan, in the other a fold of her gown. At sight of her husband she smiled.
Nevius stayed her with a question.
“What was it that Frances had to say that was so important last night?”
With that motion which a swan has, Mrs. Nevius turned her head and for a moment seemed lost in the query. But at once she must have recollected.
“Nothing. The address of a milliner. How are tilings in the Street?”
“And you gave her the address, did you?”
“Of course, I did. Why? But what do you mean by asking all these questions?”
“And you found it necessary to add that I had not gone to Chicago, and that you couldn’t see her, didn’t you?”
Mrs. Nevius’ big blue eyes seemed to grow bigger and bluer, but to her face came a flush with which health had nothing to do.
“You found it necessary to add that, didn’t you?”
The fan she held, she opened and closed.
“I am sure,” she said at last, “I don’t understand—”
“Look.”
At the invitation, at the gesture which accompanied it, she crossed the room, peered down at the scraps, at the basket from which they had come, at the rug and floor. When she raised her head she turned on her husband a look of absolute scorn and, straightening herself, confronted him.
“You, you, Carol Nevius, condescend to rumble through waste papers! A scullery-maid might do such a thing, a gentleman—never.”
“Ah? Perhaps. But it was not for sociological information that I asked you to look at these things. It is because they are addressed to Ablaut, who, I see, is your lover.”
Mrs. Nevius stepped back. In her face had come an expression which a princess might assume to a lackey who had dared to question her. Then at once, as in a storm, a sky of buttercups and forget-me-nots will suddenly appear, the indignation vanished and she laughed outright.
“Why, you great goose, that was written to your Jenny.”
And as Nevius contented himself with staring at her. “But how,” she cried, “how is it possible for anyone to be such an idiot as you are!”
“I don’t see—”
“Then you shall. On our way to town Mrs. Manhattan offered me a box for next Friday. I thought I could get you to take both Jenny and myself. Last night before you came in I sat down to write to her. I told her of the offer, and referring to you I said, ‘If he has not got anything on hand I can’t see yet but that we may persuade him.’ Then I heard you at the door, and determined I would ask you first. But did you give me time? Did you? Was ever a woman mauled as I was? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? No, but aren’t you?”
“Will you forgive me?”
He was very penitent, very meek, very happy, and as his wife pretended to look as though she were not quite sure whether forgiveness could be granted to such a sinner, he caught her in his arms.
“Oh Carol!” muttered that aggrieved little woman, freeing herself as best she might. “How can you be so dreadful! Someone’s there.”
Between the curtains Rebecca stood in silent announcement of dinner.
VI
For several days Nevius saw little of his wife. At no time had she been visible when he left the house, and now when he returned there seemed to be always someone at dinner. The cloth removed, he sought the library, a room on the second floor which separated his apartment from hers. By day it was gloomy, for light reached it from above but at night it was pleasant and very still. Lined on three sides with books, it was furnished with a wide table, easy chairs, a hanging lamp, and a sofa large as a bed. Here Nevius passed his evenings. Time was valuable to him just then; he had more documents to examine than he could handle at his office, and many a letter to read and write. Later, the work at an end, he would go in search of his wife, but in those days she must have been overfatigued; her door was locked.
This regimen made him morose. That the effect was noticed is presumable. One evening he was gratified with the intelligence that he was to dine alone with Hilda, and incidentally that there was a surprise in store. What was it? Ah, voilà! If she told, where would the surprise be?
In his delight at recovered companionship Nevius promptly forgot all about that surprise; during the service of the courses he talked of his plans and projects as he had not had the chance to talk for ages before, and when the meal was done and they had gone to the other room there was a caress in his manner which Mrs. Nevius understood.
“Now, Carol,” she admonished, as he took a seat at her side. “Do behave, it’s immoral, there’s no other word for it.”
“Immoral!”
“If it is not immoral then, it’s worse. It is bourgeois.”
From the past there floated to him memories of the
