"Doubted. I've talked to her, Opdyke; she's not the kind to evolve anything, certainly not a full-fledged case of—"
Olive interrupted.
"There is some good in it, though," she persisted.
"Where?" Opdyke asked her.
"The complexion; it's better than any amount of massage. One never wrinkles, when one is convinced that nothing can go wrong."
"What about measles?" Dolph demanded pertly.
But Reed objected to the trivial interlude.
"I wish I knew how Brenton really would be taking it," he said, rather more insistently than it was his wont to speak. "The poor beggar has had bad times lately with his Ego; always has had, in fact. He has an enormous conscience, linked with an insatiate desire to put the whole universe under a blowpipe, and then weigh up the residue. That's infernally bad for a preacher, especially when he has a wife who is strong neither in her cooking nor in her sense of humour. Yes, I know something about Mrs. Brenton, even if I haven't seen her lately. Besides, I shall see her, some day. She is still clamouring at my portal; it's only a matter of time now, before she downs the outer guards and gets in."
"Reed, you won't allow it!" Olive said quickly, for she thought she was aware what such a call portended.
Opdyke's smile was grim.