Oldmeadow sat beside Adrienne Chadwick and knew that from the other end
of the room, where he talked to Mrs. Aldesey, Barney's eyes were on
them, though he tried to keep them off. It was the first dinner-party
the young couple had given since they had come up to town, for though
they were established at Coldbrooks in the communal family life Adrienne
seemed to find to her taste, and though Barney had at once immersed
himself in country pursuits, they had taken and furnished this large
house in Connaught Square and it was, apparently, settled that the
winter months were to be spent in London. How that was to be combined
with farming at Coldbrooks, or whether Barney intended to take a header
into politics and felt a London house, big enough for entertaining, part
of the programme, Oldmeadow hadn't an idea, and for the rather sinister
reason that he had hardly laid his eyes on Barney since his return from
his wedding-journey. Even though asked to tea once or twice, while,
established in an hotel, they were finding and furnishing the house, he
had never found them alone and either Barney had made no opportunity, or
his wife had seen to it that none should be made, for having a
_tête-à-tête_ with his old friend.
Oldmeadow could not associate Barney with ambitions, either social or
political, nor, he was bound to say, as he looked round the
dinner-table, where Adrienne sat at one end with Lord Lumley and Barney
at the other with Lady Lumley, could one infer from its disparate and
irrelevant elements any such ambitions in Adrienne. He had taken Mrs.
Aldesey down and had felt her at moments to be almost too resourceful,
her air of graceful skill in keeping the ball rolling seeming too much
to emphasize its tendency to drop. Without Mrs. Aldesey, without
Meg--vividly engaged at one corner with a fair young American--without
himself, for he had aided and abetted Lydia to the best of his ability,
the dinner would have been a dull one and he was not sure that even
their enterprise had redeemed it. Adrienne had not any air of fearing
dullness or of being in need of assistance. Oldmeadow saw that the blue
ribbon was frequently unrolled and that, as always, it made a silence in
which it could be watched. Lord Lumley, his handsome, official head bent
in an attitude of chivalrous devotion, watched earnestly, and the fair
young American paused in the midst of whatever he might be saying to Meg
to take almost reverent note; but Oldmeadow fancied more than once that
he caught startled eyes fixed upon it, especially when there emerged a
lustrous loop of quotation:--
"One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,
Never doubted clouds would break,--"
The silence for that had been so general that even Barney, far away, and
protected by Mrs. Aldesey, was aware of it.
"How wonderfully he _wears_, doesn't he, dear old Browning," said Mrs.
Aldesey, and in the glance that Barney cast upon her was an oddly
mingled gratitude and worry. The fair young American, he was very fair
and had clear, charming eyes, finished the verse in a low voice to Meg
and Meg looked at him affectionately the while. He was evidently one of
Adrienne's appurtenances.
It was a dull dinner. Pretty, festive Mrs. Pope and young Mr. Haviland,
reputed to be a wit and one of Meg's young men as Mrs. Pope was one of
Barney's young women, would not with any eagerness again attend a board
where the hostess quoted Browning and didn't know better than to send
you down, the first with a stern young socialist who sat silent for the
most part and frowned when addressed, and the second with a jocular,
middle-aged lady from California, the mother, Oldmeadow gathered, of the
clear-eyed youth, from whose ample bosom Mr. Haviland's subtle arrows
glanced aside leaving him helplessly exposed to the stout bludgeonings
of her humour. Adrienne paused once or twice in her conversation to
smile approval upon her compatriot and to draw Lord Lumley's attention
to her special brand of merriment, good Lord Lumley adjusting his
glasses obediently to take it in.
And now they were all assembled in the drawing-room. Like everything
about Adrienne, it was simple and rather splendid. Barney had wisely
kept his modernities for his own study and it was a pity, Oldmeadow
reflected, that Adrienne had not kept for her own boudoir the large
portrait of herself that hung over the mantelpiece, since it was a note
more irrelevant than any Post Impressionist could have been and cast a
shade of surmise over the taste displayed in the Chippendale furniture
and the Chinese screens.
"Rather sweet, isn't it; pastoral and girlish, you know," Barney had
suggested tentatively as Mrs. Aldesey had placed herself before it.
"Done in Paris a good many years ago; the man was very much the fashion
then. Adrienne was only sixteen. It's an extraordinarily perfect
likeness still, isn't it?"
To which Mrs. Aldesey, all old lace and exquisite evasion, had murmured,
her lorgnette uplifted: "Quite dear and ingenuous. Such a relief after
your arid Cubists. What would they make of Mrs. Barney _en bergère_, I'd
like to know? A jumble of packing-cases with something twisted in a
corner to signify a bleat."
For the picture, painted with glib assurance and abounding in pink and
azure, portrayed Adrienne dressed as a shepherdess and carrying a
flower-wreathed crook.
Adrienne, to-night at all events, was looking very unlike the
shepherdess, but that might be because of the approaches of her
maternity. Mrs. Chadwick, when he had last been at Coldbrooks, had told
him that the baby was expected in May and that Adrienne was wonderful
about it, dedicating herself to its perfection in thought and deed with
every conscious hour.
"If only I'd thought about my babies before they came like that, who
knows what they might have turned out!" she had surmised. "But I was
very silly, I'm afraid, and the only thing I really did think of was how
I should dress them. I've always loved butcher's-blue linen for children
and I must say that mine did look very nice in it. For everyday, you
know."
Oldmeadow found it extremely difficult to think of Adrienne as a mother;
it was much easier to think of her as a shepherdess. Such solidities of
experience gave her even a certain pathos in his eyes, though he was in
no whit dislodged from his hostility to her. She was as mild, as
satisfied, apparently, with herself and with existence, as ever, yet her
eyes and lips expressed fatigue and a purely physical sadness that was
uncharacteristic, and it was uncharacteristic that she should be rather
thickly powdered.
They had not really met since the morning of her adjuration to him at
Coldbrooks and he wondered if she remembered that little scene as
vividly as he did. She would be very magnanimous did she not remember it
unpleasantly; and he could imagine her as very magnanimous; yet from the
fact that she had kept Barney from him he could not believe that she was
feeling magnanimously.
She watched Barney and Mrs. Aldesey now, as they stood before her
portrait, and he fancied that the sadness in her eyes, whatever might be
its cause, deepened a little. When she turned them on him it was with an
effect of being patiently ready for him. Perhaps, really, she had been
more patient than pleased all evening.
"So you are settled here for the winter?" he said. "Have you and Barney
any plans? I've hardly seen anything of him of late."
"We have been so very, very busy, you know," said Adrienne, as if quite
accepting his right to an explanation.
She was dressed in pale blue and wore, with her pearl necklace, a little
wreath of pearls in her hair. In her hands she turned, as they talked, a
small eighteenth-century fan painted in pink and grey and blue, and he
was aware, as he had been at Coldbrooks, of those slow and rather
fumbling movements.
"We couldn't well ask friends," she went on, "even the dearest, to come
and sit on rolls of carpet with us while we drank our tea, could we?
We've kept our squalor for the family circle. Meg's been with us; so
dear and helpful; but only Meg and a flying visit once or twice from
Mother Nell. Nancy couldn't come. But nothing, it seems, will tear Nancy
from hunting. I feel that strange and rather sad; the absorption of a
fine young life in such primitiveness."
"Oh, well; it's not her only interest, you know," said Oldmeadow, very
determined not to allow himself vexation. "Nancy is a creature of such
deep country roots. Not the kind that grow in London."
"I know," said Adrienne. "And it is just those roots that I want to
prevent my Barney's growing. Roots like that tie people to routine;
convention; acceptance. I want Barney to find a wider, freer life. I
hope he will go into politics. If we have left Coldbrooks and the dear
people there for these winter months it's because I feel he will be
better able to form opinions here than in the country. I saw quite well,
there, that people didn't form opinions; only accepted traditions. I
want Barney to be free of tradition and to form opinions for himself. He
has none now," she smiled.
She had been clear before, and secure; but he felt now the added weight
of her matronly authority. He felt, too, that, while ready for him and,
perhaps, benevolently disposed, she was far more indifferent to his
impressions than she had been at Coldbrooks. She had possessed Barney
before; but how much more deeply she possessed him now and how much
more definitely she saw what she intended to do with him.
"You must equip him with your opinions," said Oldmeadow, and his voice
was a good match for hers in benevolence. "I know that you have so many
well-formed ones."
"Oh, no; never that," said Adrienne. "That's how country vegetables are
grown; first in frames and then in plots; all guided and controlled. He
must find his own opinions; quite for himself; quite freely of
influence. That is the rock upon which Democracy is founded. Nothing is
more arresting to development than living by other people's opinions."
"But we must get our opinions from somebody and somewhere. The danger of
democracy is that we don't grow them at all; merely catch them, like
influenza, from a mob. Not that I disbelieve in democracy."
"Don't you, Mr. Oldmeadow?" She turned her little fan and smiled on him.
"You believe in liberty, equality, fraternity? That surprises me."
"Democracy isn't incompatible with recognizing that other people are
wiser than oneself and letting them guide us; quite the contrary. Why
surprised? Have I seemed so autocratic?"
"It would surprise me very much to learn that you believed in equality,
to start with that alone"; Adrienne smiled on.
"Well, I own that I don't believe in people who have no capacity for
opinions being impowered to act as if they had. That's the fallacy
that's playing the mischief with us, all over the world."
"They never will have opinions worth having unless they are given the
liberty to look for them. You don't believe in liberty, either, when you
say that."
"No; not for everybody. Some of our brothers are too young and others
too stupid to be trusted with it."
"They'll take it for themselves if you don't trust them with it," said
Adrienne, and he was again aware that though she might be absurd she, at
all events, was not stupid. "All that we can do in life is to trust, and
help, and open doors. Only experience teaches. People must follow their
own lights."
He moved forward another pawn, and though he did not find her stupid he
was not taking her seriously. "Most people have no lights to follow.
It's a choice for them between following other people's or resenting and
trampling on them. That, again, is what we can see happening all over
the world."
"So it is, you must own, just as I thought; you don't even believe in
fraternity," said Adrienne, and she continued to smile her weary,
tranquil smile upon him; "for we cannot feel towards men as towards
brothers, and trust them, unless we believe that the light shines into
each human soul."
He saw now that unless they went much deeper, deeper than he could be
willing, ever, to go with Adrienne Toner, he must submit to letting
himself appear as worsted. He knew where he believed the roots of trust
to grow and he did not intend, no never, to say to Adrienne Toner that
only through the love of God could one at once distrust and love the
species to which one belonged. He could have shuddered at the thought of
what she would certainly have found to say about God.
"You've got all sorts of brothers here to-night, haven't you," he
remarked, putting aside the abstract theme and adjusting his glass.
"Some of them look as though they didn't recognize the relationship.
Where did you find our young socialist over there in the corner? He
looks very menacing. Most of the socialists I've known have been the
mildest of men."
"He is a friend of Palgrave's. Palgrave brought him to see me. Oh, I'm
so glad--Gertrude is going to take care of him. She always sees at once
if anyone looks lonely. That's all right, then."
Oldmeadow was not so sure it was as he observed the eye with which Mr.
Besley measured the beaming advance of the lady from California.
"I wonder if you would like my dear old friend, Mrs. Prentiss," Adrienne
continued, watching her method with Mr. Besley. "The Laughing
Philosopher, Mother used to call her. She is a very rare, strong soul.
That is her son, talking to Lady Lumley. He's been studying architecture
in Paris for the past three years. A radiant person. Mrs. Prentiss runs
a settlement in San Francisco and has a brilliant literary and artistic
salon. She is a real force in the life of our country."
"Why should you question my appreciation of rarity and strength? I can
see that she is very kind and that if anybody can melt Mr. Besley she
will."
"Gertrude would have melted Diogenes," said Adrienne with a fond
assurance that, though it took the form of playfulness, lacked its
substance. "I hope they will find each other, for he is rare and strong,
too. What he needs is warmth and happiness. He makes me think of Shelley
when he talks."
"He's too well up in statistics to make me think of Shelley," Oldmeadow
commented. Barney, he saw, from his place beside Mrs. Aldesey at the
other end of the room, was still watching them, pleased now, it was
evident, by the appearance of friendly, drifting converse they
presented. "He's not altogether unknown to me for we often, in our
review, get our windows broken by his stones; well-thrown, too. He's
very able. So you thought it might do the British Empire good to face
him? Well, I suppose it may."
"Which are the British Empire?" asked Adrienne. "You. To begin with."
"Oh, no. Count me out. I'm only a snappy, snuffy scribbler. Good old
Lord Lumley, of course, with all his vast, well-governed provinces
shimmering in the Indian sun behind him. And Sir Archibald, who talks so
loudly in the House. Palgrave didn't bring him, I'll be bound."
"No. Lady Lumley brought him. He and Lord Lumley are certainly more than
odds and ends." She had an air of making no attempt to meet his
badinage, if it was that, but of mildly walking past it. "They are, both
of them, rather splendid people, in spite of their limitations. They've
accepted tradition, you see, instead of growing opinion. That is their
only trouble. I was afraid you were going to say Mr. Haviland. He is
certainly an odd and end."
Mr. Haviland and Mrs. Pope had found each other and were indulging in
mirthful repartee in the back drawing-room. "I feel safe with Lord
Lumley and Sir Archibald," Adrienne added.
"I'd certainly rather trust myself in their hands than in Mr. Besley's.
I'd almost rather trust myself in the hands of Mr. Haviland."
"You mean that they would, at least, keep you comfortable and that Mr.
Besley wouldn't." She, too, had her forms of repartee.
"I expect it's just what I do mean," he assented. "If Mr. Besley and his
friends had their way, I for instance, and workers of my type, would
soon, I suspect, have to forego our tobacco and our chamber-music. We're
only marketable in a comfortable world. And there are more comfortable
people, I maintain, under Lord Lumley, than there would be under Mr.
Besley."
"'Heartily know, when half-gods go, the gods arrive,'" said Adrienne.
"All revolutions must begin by burning away the evil and the refuse. Not
that I am a revolutionist, or even a socialist."
"You can't separate good from evil by burning," he said. "You burn them
both. That's what the French did in their lamentable bonfire, for which
they've been paying in poorer brains and poorer blood ever since. We
don't want revolutions. All we want is slow, good-tempered reform.
Revolutions are always ill-tempered, aren't they, and nothing worth
doing was ever done in an ill-temper. You are making me very didactic."
"Oh, but I prefer that so much to persiflage," said Adrienne, with her
tranquillity. "And I am glad to hear what you really believe. But it is
sad to me that you should see no ardour or glory in anything. With all
its excesses and errors, I have always felt the French Revolution to be
a sublime expression of the human spirit."
"It might have been; if they could only have kept their
heads--metaphorically as well as literally. But the glory and ardour
were too mixed with hatred and ignorance. I'm afraid I do tend to
distrust those states of feeling. They tend so easily to
self-deception."
She was looking at him, quietly and attentively, and he was, for the
first time since their initial meeting, perhaps, feeling quite
benevolently towards her; quite as the British Empire might feel towards
a subject race. It was, therefore, the more difficult to feel anything
but exasperation when she said, having, evidently, summed up her
impressions and found her verdict: "Yes. You distrust them. We always
come back to that, don't we? You distrust yourself, too. So that, when
you tell me what you believe, you can only do it in the form of making
fun of my beliefs. I feel about you, Mr. Oldmeadow, what I felt that
morning when I tried to come near you and you wouldn't let me. I feel it
more the more I see you; and it makes me sad. It isn't only that you
distrust ardour and glory, all the sunlight and splendour of life; but
you are afraid of them; afraid to open your heart to trust. You shut
your door upon the sunlight and take up your caustic pen; and you don't
see how the shadows fall about you."
It was indeed a dusty tumble from the quite civilized pavement of their
interchange, and it was unfortunate that upon his moment of
discomfiture, when he saw himself as trying to clap the dust off his
knees and shoulders in time to be presentable, Barney and Mrs. Aldesey
should have chosen to approach them. Barney, no doubt, imagined it a
propitious moment in which to display to Mrs. Aldesey his wife's and his
friend's amity.
Adrienne was perfectly composed. She had borne her testimony and, again,
done her best for him, pointing out to him that the first step towards
enfranchisement was to open his door to the sunlight that she could so
bountifully supply. She turned a clear, competent eye upon her husband
and his companion.
"Well, dear, and what have you and Roger been so deep in?" Barney
inquired, looking down at her with a fondness in which, all the same,
Oldmeadow detected the anxiety that had hovered in his eye all evening.
"You've seemed frightfully deep."
"We have been," said Adrienne, looking up at him. "In liberty, equality
and fraternity; all the things I believe in and that Mr. Oldmeadow
doesn't. I can't imagine how he gets on at all, he believes in so few
things. It must be such a sad, dim, groping world to live in when there
are no stars above to look at and no hands below to hold."
"Oh, well, you see," said Mrs. Aldesey with her dragging smile, "his
ancestors didn't sign the Declaration of Independence."
"We don't need ancestors to do that," Adrienne smiled back. "All of us
sign it for ourselves--all of us who have accepted our birthright and
taken the gifts that our great, modern, deep-hearted world hold out to
us. You are an American, Mrs. Aldesey, so you find it easy to believe in
freedom, don't you?"
"Very easy; for myself; but not for other people," Mrs. Aldesey replied
and Oldmeadow saw at once, with an added discomfort, that she
underestimated, because of Adrienne's absurdity, Adrienne's
intelligence. "But then the very name of any abstraction--freedom,
humanity, what you will--has always made me feel, at once, dreadfully
sleepy. It's not ever having had my mind trained, Mrs. Barney. Now
yours was, beautifully, I can see."
Adrienne looked up at her, for Mrs. Aldesey, her lace about her
shoulders, her lorgnette in her hands, had not seated herself, and it
was further evident to Oldmeadow that she weighed Mrs. Aldesey more
correctly than Mrs. Aldesey weighed her. "Very carefully, if not
beautifully," she said. "Have I made you sleepy already? But I don't
want to go on talking about abstractions. I want to talk about Mr.
Oldmeadow. The truth is, Barney," and her voice, as she again turned her
eyes on her husband, had again the form but not the substance of gaiety,
"the truth is that he's a lonely, lonely bachelor and that we ought to
arrange a marriage for him, you and I. Since he doesn't believe in
freedom, he won't mind having a marriage arranged, will he?--if we can
find a rare, sweet, gifted girl."
Barney had become red. "Roger's been teasing you, darling. Nobody
believes in freedom more. Don't let him take you in. He's an awful old
humbug with his Socratic method. He upsets you before you know where you
are. He's always been like that."
"Yes; hasn't he," Mrs. Aldesey murmured.
"But he hasn't upset me at all," said Adrienne. "I grant that he was
trying to, that he was doing his very best to give me a tumble; but I
quite see through him and he doesn't conceal himself from me in the very
least. He doesn't really believe in freedom, however much he may have
taken _you_ in, Barney; he'd think it wholesome, of course, that you
should believe in it. That's his idea, you see; to give people what he
thinks wholesome; to choose for them. It's the lack of faith all
through. But the reason is that he's lonely; dreadfully lonely, and
because of that he's grown to be, as he says, snappy and snuffy; so that
we must borrow a page from his book and find what is wholesome for him.
I know all the symptoms so well. I've had friends just like that. It's a
starved heart and having nobody to be fonder of than anyone else; no one
near at all. He must be happily married as soon as possible. A happy
marriage is the best gift of life, isn't it, Mrs. Aldesey? If we haven't
known that we haven't known our best selves, have we?"
"It may be; we mayn't have," said Mrs. Aldesey, cheerfully; but she was
not liking it. "I can't say. Am I to have a hand in choosing his bride?
I know his tastes, I think. We're quite old friends, you see."
"No one who doesn't believe in freedom for other people may help to
choose her," said Adrienne, with a curious blitheness. "That's why he
mayn't choose her himself. We must go quite away to find her; away from
ceilings and conventions and out into the sunlight. I don't believe
happiness is found under ceilings. And it's what we all need more than
anything else. Even tobacco and chamber-music don't make you a bit
happy, do they, Mr. Oldmeadow? and if one isn't happy one can't know
anything about anything. Not really."
"Alas!" sighed Mrs. Aldesey, keeping up her end, but not very
successfully, while Barney fixed his eyes upon his wife. "And I thought
I'd found it this evening, under this ceiling. Well, I shall cherish my
illusion, since you tell me it's only that, and thank you for it, Mrs.
Barney. The Lumleys are going to give me a lift and I see that their car
has been announced."
"Stay on a bit, Roger," Barney murmured, as the Lumleys approached.
"I've seen nothing of you for ages."
Adrienne rose to greet her parting guests.
"Darling Adrienne, good-night. It's been perfectly delightful, your
little party," said Lady Lumley, who was large, light and easily
pleased; an English equivalent of the lady from California, but without
the sprightliness. "Your dear young Mr. Prentiss is a treasure. He's
been telling me about Sicilian temples. We _must_ get there one day.
Mrs. Prentiss says they will come to us for a week-end before they go.
How extraordinarily interesting she is. Don't forget that you are coming
on the fifteenth."
"I shall get up a headache, first thing!" Lord Lumley stated in a loud,
jocular whisper, reverting to a favourite jest on Adrienne's powers.
"That's the thing to go in for, eh? I won't let Charlie cut me out this
time. Not a night's sleep till you come!"
"Go in for as many as you like, dear Lord Lumley," said Adrienne,
smiling her assurance of being able to deal with a series.
"Good-night, Mrs. Barney," said Mrs. Aldesey. "Leave me a little
standing-room under the stars, won't you."
"There's always standing-room under the stars," said Adrienne. "We don't
exclude each other there."
The party showed no other signs of breaking up. The Laughing Philosopher
had melted, or, at all events, mastered Mr. Besley, and talked to him
with, now and again, a maternal hand laid on his knee. Mr. Haviland and
Mrs. Pope still laughed in the back drawing-room, Meg and Mr. Prentiss
had come together again and Sir Archibald was engaged with a pretty
girl. After looking around upon them all, Adrienne, with the appearance
of a deeper fatigue, sank back upon her sofa.
"You know, darling," Barney smiled candidly upon his wife, "you rather
put your foot in it just now. Mrs. Aldesey's marriage isn't happy. I
ought to have warned you."
"How do you mean not happy, Barney?" Adrienne looked up at him. "Isn't
Mr. Aldesey dead?"
"Not at all dead. She left him some years ago, didn't she, Roger? He
lives in New York. It's altogether a failure."
Adrienne looked down at her fan. "I didn't know. But one can't avoid
speaking of success sometimes, even to failures."
"Of course not. Another time you will know."
Adrienne seemed to meditate, but without compunction. "That was what she
meant, then, by saying she believed in freedom for herself but not for
other people."
"Meant? How do you mean? She was joking."
"If she left him. It was she who left him?"
"I don't know anything about it," Barney spoke now with definite
vexation and Oldmeadow, in his corner of the sofa, his arms folded, his
eyes on the cornice, gave him no help. "Except that, yes, certainly;
it's she who left him. She's not a deserted wife. Anything but."
"It's only Mr. Aldesey who is the deserted husband," Adrienne turned her
fan and kept her eyes on it. "It's only he who can't be free. Forgive me
if she's a special friend of yours, Mr. Oldmeadow; but it explains. I
felt something so brittle, so unreal in her, charming and gracious as
she is. It is so very wrong for a woman to do that, I think."
"Wrong?" Barney echoed, staring at Oldmeadow while this firm hand was
laid upon his Egeria. "What the dickens do you mean, darling? She is a
special friend of Roger's. You don't surely mean to say a woman must,
under all circumstances, stick to a man she doesn't love?"
"Anything but that, Barney. I think that she should leave him and set
him free. It's quite plain to me that if a wife will not live with her
husband it is her duty to divorce him. Then, at any rate, he can try for
happiness again."
"Divorce him, my dear child!" Barney was trying to keep up appearances
but the note of marital severity came through and as it sounded Adrienne
raised her eyes to his: "It's not so easy as all that! Aldesey, whatever
his faults, may have given her no cause to divorce him, and I take it
you'll not suggest that Mrs. Aldesey should give him cause to divorce
her."
On her sofa, more pallid under her powder, more sunken than before, and
with the queer squashed-in look emphasized, Adrienne kept steady eyes
uplifted to her husband. "Not at all, dear Barney," she returned and
Oldmeadow, though hardened against the pathos of her physical
disability, saw that she spoke with difficulty, "but I think that you
confuse the real with the conventional wrong. Mrs. Aldesey would not
care to face any unconventionality; that is quite apparent. She would
draw her skirts aside from any conventional wrong-doing. But the real
wrong she would be blind to; the wrong of keeping anyone bound in the
emptiness you have made for them. Setting free is not so strange and
terrible a matter as you seem to imagine. It's quite easy for brave,
unshackled people."
"Well, I must really be off," Oldmeadow now seized the occasion to
declare. "I believe, as a matter of fact, that Mr. Aldesey lives very
contentedly in New York, collecting French prints and giving excellent
dinners. Anything open and scandalous would be as distasteful to him as
to his wife. They are, both of them, happier apart; that's all it comes
to. So you must read your lessons, even by proxy, to more authentic
misdemeanants, Mrs. Barney. All right, Barney. Don't come down. I'll
hope to see you both again quite soon."
So he got away, concealing as best he might, his sense of tingling
anger. But it died away to a sense of chill as he walked down Park Lane.
Was not Barney unhappy, already? What did she say to him when she got
him to herself? He felt sure that she had never bargained for a husband
who could look at her with ill-temper.