She felt his shoulder heave with a longer breath.
“I can’t imagine putting anything before Mathilde’s happiness,” he said, and after a pause he added: “I really must go home. Mrs. Baxter will think me a neglectful host.”
“Don’t you want to bring her to dine here to-night? I’ll try and get some one to meet her. Let me see. She thinks Mr. Wilsey—”
“Oh, I can’t stand Wilsey,” answered her father, crossly.
“Well, I’ll think of some one to sacrifice on the altar of your friendship. I certainly don’t want to dine alone with Mathilde. And, by the way, Papa, I haven’t mentioned any of this to Vincent.”
He thought it was admirable of her to bear her anxieties alone so as to spare her sick husband.
“Poor girl!” he said. “You’ve had a lot of trouble lately.”
In the meantime Wayne and his mother walked slowly home.
“I suppose you’re furious at me, Pete,” she said.
“Not a bit,” he answered. “For a moment, when I saw what you were going to say, I was terrified. But no amount of tact would have made Mrs. Farron feel differently, and I think they might as well know what we really think and feel. I was only sorry if it hurt Mathilde.”