“The gentleman doesn't like the situation. I suggest”—Champney heaved his wide frame out of the chair—“that he be released from his situation.”
“Do you like the situation, sir?”
“I do not, sir,” with rising thunder. “I hope, if this discussion is continued here, or elsewhere,”—appearing to imply a preference for “elsewhere,”—“it will have no reference to my family.”
Mr. Champney withdrew royally. Miss Eunice followed, a suspicion of meekness and fright in her manner, her glasses tilted sideways. Aidee stood still a moment. Then he said quietly:
“I have made a mistake. Good-night,” and took his leave. He looked tired and weighed down.
Hennion felt the air as full of echoes and vibrations subsiding.
Camilla wept with her head on the table.
“I'm sorry, Milly. It was a shocking row.”
Camilla felt her soul in too great tumult to consider either humour or repentance.
Going past the piles of brick, on Lower Bank Street, Hennion felt like shoving them all into the Muscadine, and Aidee and Wood after them. He wanted his private life and work, and Camilla. But Camilla hovered away from him, and would not be drawn nearer. She was a puzzling seraph, and the world was a puzzling world, in whose algebra the equations were too apt to have odd zeros and miscellaneous infinities dropped among them to suit the taste of an engineer. It seemed to be constructed not altogether and solely for business men to do business in, else why such men as Aidee, so irrationally forcible? And why such girls as Camilla to fill a practical man's soul with misty dreams, and draw him whither he would not?