§ i
IT was a filial duty, as well as a wifely duty, to meet Gilbert’s train. He wished them all to do so, he liked to see these three charmingly dressed, feminine creatures all looking for and expecting him. But he never showed this; he always wore the distracted and annoyed expression of a tremendously busy man snatching a little time for his family.
He got off the train in his rather clumsy way, and they started toward him, when the sight of Mr. MacGregor following him, bag in hand, changed their politely eager smiles to looks of consternation.
Gilbert kissed them all perfunctorily, and then brought forward his companion.
“I’ve brought Mr. MacGregor down with me,” he announced. “I hope the place isn’t crowded.”
“It isn’t,” said Andrée. “I don’t see why it should be. I don’t see anything to bring crowds of people here, I’m sure.”
“Hush, Andrée!” murmured her mother, and bestowed a gracious and expressionless smile upon the visitor. “I’m sure there’ll be a room for Mr. MacGregor. Hadn’t we better get into the bus now? It’s waiting, you know!”
All the way to the hotel she was quite perfect; she told Mr. MacGregor about Andrée’s difficulties in practising, she was gay, in a formal, stereotyped way; when they arrived she arranged with the landlady for a room, even went about, picking him out a nice one. Then they all sat on the veranda for an hour or so, in the terrific heat, looking out over the sun-scorched lawn and the dusty road, and the motionless fir trees, and talked more. It was not an altogether successful conversation; Andrée was perverse and wilfully tactless, Edna was frankly indifferent, and Gilbert very garrulous. He wished to talk about the wholesale rubber business, and he did.
Then it was time to dress for dinner and they all went upstairs. The door into the girls’ room was locked, and Gilbert sat down, prepared for a more confidential talk, and an accounting of Claudine’s expenditure. But she attacked him at once, with a fiercely restrained wrath.
“Gilbert, what made you bring that man here?”
“Who? You mean Mr. MacGregor? I wanted to!” he answered, defiantly.
“It was a stupid, meddlesome thing to do!” she cried.
“See here, Claudine—!”
“You don’t realize the trouble it may cause.... Why didn’t you consult me?”
He laughed unpleasantly.
“I don’t think I’ll start that now, after twenty years—”
“You’ve no right to bring any man, where the girls are, without consulting me.... I particularly didn’t want this man.”
“Why?”
“It’s no use your being so high-handed with me. I’ll bring anyone I see fit. I consider my judgment—”
“Then I shall take Andrée away.”
“Going to leave me? I’ve heard that before!”
She was quite white with anger.
“When it’s a question of Andrée—” she began.
“There it is again—your cursed, unfair, unwomanly favouritism. What’s the matter with MacGregor? Not good enough for your princess?”
“Then he’s spoken to you!” she cried, in horror.
“Yes, he has, and very decently, too. I don’t see how she could do much better, if you ask me.”
“Gilbert! Are you mad? That old man—old enough to be her father!”
This touched a sore spot.
“Even that isn’t so very ancient,” he said, with infantile resentment. “No one but you would call a man of his age old. He’s a fine fellow. He has a good name, and he’s well fixed, and he’s very fond of Andrée—”
“You’re—you’re positively wicked!” she cried, choking with sobs. “Andrée—that wonderful, beautiful child—and that silly old man ...! I’m ashamed of you! I’m disgusted with you!”
He was astonished and somewhat alarmed. How was he to explain to this unreasonably violent woman his pretty fancies about young brides and adoring, distinguished, grey-haired husbands?
“See here!” he began, but she wouldn’t listen to him.
“I won’t allow him to say a word to her! Not a word! I’m going to speak to him myself and—”
“No, you don’t! I’m not going to be made a fool of! I told him he might speak to Andrée—”
“And I’ll tell him he can’t. I won’t have any interference where Andrée’s concerned.”
“I tell you I have something to say in this matter!”
She looked at him with a cold smile, and deliberately turned away from him. It was a trick of hers, and it always infuriated him. He raged at her in a way of which he was afterward ashamed.
She went on dressing, entirely disregarding him; then when she was ready, she said:
“I’m going downstairs now. Perhaps you’ll dress, when you’ve finished your bar-room tirade.”