Just then a procession of soft-footed, white-clad servants entered upon them, and the tension, if tension there had been, was dispelled.
"Will you have tea, Major Bethune, or this child's prescription?"
The ice tinkled melodiously in the fragrant yellow brew. "Baby" was already sucking through a straw; she rolled her eyes, expressive of rapture, towards the visitor. But he was not to be diverted.
"I will have nothing, thank you."
He had not thought himself so sentimental. Why should he bear so deep a grudge against this woman? How could her forgetfulness, her indifference, now harm the dead? It was fantastic, unreasonable, and yet he could not bring himself to break bread with her to-day. He clasped his lean brown fingers tightly across his knees.
"I am afraid," he said briefly, "that my presence must seem an intrusion. But I trust you will forgive me when you understand upon what errand I come."
She disclaimed his apology by a wave of her hand. The emeralds upon it shot green fire at him.
"The fact is," he went on, doggedly making for his point, "I have been asked to write a life of—your husband."
He was interrupted by a commotion among the ice and bubbles of Miss Aspasia's long tumbler.
"Gracious," she sputtered; "but the Runkle is not dead yet!" She choked down, just in time, the comment: "Worse luck!" which had almost escaped her terribly frank tongue.