“You’ve never met him or you wouldn’t ask. Have you ever had to face someone who is simply incarnate Saintliness and Disapproval, who—”
“Are you forgetting that I was engaged to you for several weeks?”
He was too startled to be hurt. The idea of himself as a Roland Bean was too new to be assimilated immediately. It called for meditation.
“Was I like that?” he said at last, almost humbly.
“You know you were. Oh, I’m not thinking only about your views on the stage! It was everything. Whatever I did you were there to disapprove like a—like a—like an aunt,” she concluded triumphantly. “You were too good for anything. If only you would, just once, have done something wrong, I think I’d have—But you couldn’t. You’re simply perfect.”
A man will remain cool and composed under many charges. Hint that his tastes are criminal, and he will shrug his shoulders. But accuse him of goodness, and you rouse the lion.
Mr. Ferguson’s brow darkened.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, haughtily, “I was to have had supper with a chorus-girl this very night.”
“How very appalling!” said she, languidly.
She sipped her cocoa.
“I suppose you consider that very terrible?” she said.
“For a beginner.”
She crumbled her cake. Suddenly she looked up.
“Who is she?” she demanded, fiercely.
“I beg your pardon?” he said, coming out of a pleasant reverie.
“Who is this girl?”
“She—er—her name—her name is Marie—Marie Templeton.”
“She seemed to think for a moment.
“That dear old lady?” she said. “I know her quite well.”
“What!”
“ ‘Mother’ we used to call her. Have you met her son?”
“Her son?”
“A rather nice-looking man. He plays heavy parts on tour. He’s married and has two of the sweetest children. Their grandmother is devoted to them. Hasn’t she ever mentioned them to you?”
She poured herself out another cup of cocoa. Conversation again languished.
“I suppose you’re very fond of her?” she said at length.