The final scene between Conover and his son’s wife had endured less than twenty seconds. It was over, and she had departed before Gerald realized what had happened. Then, with a cry, he was on his feet and hurrying to the door. But his father stood in front of it.
“If you’re not cured now,” said Conover, “you never will be. Go back and ring for your mother’s maid.”
The boy’s mouth was open for a wrathful retort. But embers of the blaze that had transformed Caleb’s face as he had dismissed the chorus girl still flickered there. And under their scorching heat Gerald Conover slunk back, beaten but still muttering defiant incoherences under his breath.
Mrs. Conover, under Anice’s gentle ministration, was coming to her senses. She opened her eyes with a gasp of fear, then sat up and looked apprehensively around.
“She is gone, dear,” whispered Anice, divining her meaning, “and Gerald didn’t mean what he said. He was excited, that was all. He’s all right again now. Shall I help you upstairs?”
But Mrs. Conover insisted on being assisted to the nearby sofa, from which refuge she feebly waved away her maid and vetoed Anice’s further offices.
“I am all right,” she pleaded under her breath. “Let me stay here. Caleb hates to have me give way to these heart attacks. I’ll stay till he has gone to his study. Then——”
“All right again, old lady?” asked Caleb, walking across to the sofa. “Like me to send for the doctor?”
“No. Yes, I’m quite well again now,” stammered his wife. “Thank you for asking.”
It was not wholly indifference which had kept Conover from the invalid’s side. So great had been the unwonted fury that mastered him, he had dared not speak to either of the women until he was able to some extent to curb it. His usually iron nerves were still a-quiver, and his voice was unlike its customary self.