"What's so extraordinary about that?"
"Not a thing, of course. I wasn't certain I'd understood you, that was
all."
But it appeared that the idea of helping this young woman had ceased to
have the smallest pulling power now. Rather, there was bitterness in the
thought that she still seemed ready to use him when she could.
He said, with savage urbanity: "Perhaps you might get Donald a
motor-cycle, and encourage him to practice up as a Speed Demon."
The remark was received in entire silence. It was probably true that she
literally did not understand him. All the same, his displeasure grew.
"But really," he continued sweetly, "if these two young people are so
strongly attracted to each other--love at first sight, who
knows?--really, is it judicious to interfere? Don't you believe in
elective affinities at all?"
"As a matter of fact, you know, Donald was greatly attracted to Helen,
at first sight. And as for Angela, I'm certain--"
"You see," he interrupted, stung beyond all calculations, "my personal
idea is that Miss Angela would probably make him a more suitable wife."
That unwisdom made everything worse at once; for Mary, after one glance
at him and a stare out the window, said in a changed, "diplomatic" tone:
"Well, I mustn't let you misunderstand me, at any rate. You know, I've
agreed with you perfectly, all along, that she's thoroughly charming....
And, by the way, she likes _you_ so much, too!"
Charles froze instantly.
"In fact, she thinks you're much more attractive than Donald--or did,
just a little while ago. I have her word for it. So if she's seeing a
good deal of Donald just now, I don't believe it's from affinity,
necessarily!"
"Indeed?"
"She was inquiring about you the last time I saw her--saying that she
never saw you now, asking if you ever spoke of her to me, and so on. I
told her, of course, you did, and repeated some of the compliments you
paid her--"
Again he interrupted her, now with some slipping of his mask. It was
true, to be just, that Mary Wing knew nothing of his long struggles to
elude the Fordette. Nevertheless, her patent desire to hand him back to
it, merely by way of furthering a little her plans for Donald, seemed
somehow the last straw. A friendly reward for magnanimity this! And it
may be some touch of purely male chagrin enhanced the philosophic anger,
that any woman should be thus eager to pass on him, Charles, to another.
"I believe my remark was that I considered Miss Angela a suitable wife
for Donald. So far as I am aware, I do not come into the conversation at
all. If your suggestion is that I should step in and take her off his
hands--in order to help you--may I beg you to put such an idea from your
head, once and for all?"
It was clear that he astonished her: made her indignant as well. Her
scrutiny of him was direct and sharp: but she did not speak at once, as
if weighing her words or firmly counting ten, and when she did speak,
her manner bore evidences of strong control.
"You are rather puzzling to-day. I should like to know what you have on
your mind. 'Take her off his hands!' Do you really think that's quite
the way to speak of a girl who--"
"I don't, indeed. But the idea was your own, was it not?"
"Mine!--why, how can you! I only--"
"Then why not let things take their natural course, as I suggested?"
On that, turning her head away from him, she said quietly, too quietly
in fact: "I'm afraid you wouldn't understand now, if I were to tell
you."
That seemed to bring the conversation to a natural _impasse_. And
then--as if no touch were to be wanting from this embittering hour--at
just this instant, as Eustace slowed down to make his curve into Olive
Street, the two estranged friends in the old lady's limousine found
themselves looking together into the eyes of their common and particular
enemy, Mary's former principal at the High School.
Mr. Mysinger, her conqueror and his own, no less, was approaching down
the sunny promenade. He gave the two in the car just one full surveying
stare; then casually moved his gaze a degree or two away. But, as he
dropped back out of the range of vision, Charles could have sworn he saw
a smile springing under the glossy mustache he had once pledged himself
to pull off.
But this time, he felt no such bitter hostility toward the victorious
foe as had shaken him on that other remembered occasion. There was a
transient flicker of the Old Blood toward his temples, a brief iciness
within, and that was all. Recalling the childish folly of the setting-up
exercises, he experienced a cold mirth: "Why, of course, she'd say she'd
have licked Mysinger herself, if she'd considered it worth the trouble!"
And, at his old friend's side, Charles had the most disloyal thought of
her that had ever knocked at his mind. Was Mysinger, perhaps, so
entirely to blame for the ancient friction? Had he, Charles, been
principal of the High School, did he think he would have found Mary so
acceptable, so perfect, a subordinate?...
Assisting her to alight at her door, the young man inquired politely if
she had yet found a tenant for her flat. Mary replied, quite distantly,
he thought, that the John Wensons were going to take it. His comment was
that old Jack should make her a fine tenant. He courteously sent his
regards to her mother; he amiably wished her a good-afternoon.
And then he shut the limousine door on himself so hard that the glass
shook.