“No, there’s no quarrel between us,” I said; “but perhaps a straight-out row would be better than forever to be eating our own vitals with suppressed rancor.”
Mrs. Pinkerton made as if she would go around to where Bessie sat, to condole with her, without noticing my remark.
“No, don’t trouble yourself,” I cried. “It’s my place to comfort my wife.” And I took Bessie in my arms tenderly, and kissed her tear-stained cheek almost fiercely.
This theatrical demonstration caused my mother-in-law to sweep out of the room promptly, with her temper as nearly ruffled as I had ever seen it.
“O Charlie!” whimpered my poor little wife despairingly, “what shall I do? It’s awful to have you and mamma this way!”
And now it was my turn to say, “Cheer up, my love! It will all come around right in time.”
But my arrière pensée was, “Would that that burglar had bagged the old iceberg, and carried her off to her native Nova Zembla!”
CHAPTER VII.
MISS VAN’S PARTY AND ANOTHER UNPLEASANTNESS.
One day in the early fall, Mrs. Pinkerton received a letter postmarked at Paris, which seemed to throw her into a state of extraordinary excitement. I knew her well enough to be certain that she would not tell me the news, but that I should hear it later through Bessie. Such was the case. When I came home towards evening and went up stairs to prepare for supper, Bessie, who was seated in our room, said in a joyful tone,—
“George is coming home next month!”