Charlie nodded and slipped away.
"Infant," said Mr. Prohack to the defiantly smiling bride who awaited him in the council chamber. "Has your mother said anything to you about our wedding present?"
"No, dad."
"No, of course she hasn't. And do you know why? Because she daren't! With your infernal independence you've frightened the life out of the poor lady; that's what you've done. Your mother will doubtless have a talk with me to-night. And to-morrow she will tell you what she has decided to give you. Please let there be no nonsense. Whatever the gift is, I shall be obliged if you will accept it—and use it, without troubling us with any of your theories about the proper conduct of life. Wisdom and righteousness existed before you, and there's just a chance that they'll exist after you. Do you take me?"
"Quite, father."
"Good. You may become a great girl yet. We are now going home. Thanks for a very pleasant evening."
In the car, beautifully alone with Eve, who was in a restful mood, Mr. Prohack said:
"I shall be very ill in a few hours. Pâté de foi gras is the devil, but caviare is Beelzebub himself."
Eve merely gazed at him in gentle, hopeless reproach. He prophesied truly. He was very ill. And yet through the succeeding crises he kept smiling, sardonically.
"When I think," he murmured once with grimness, "that that fellow Bishop had the impudence to ask us to lunch—and Charlie too! Charlie too!" Eve, attendant, enquired sadly what he was talking about.