“Gloria,” he said. “I’m surprised. I’ve heard both sides of this case. I couldn’t miss it, by Gad. Look what you’ve done. You’ve broken her heart. Are you proud of your job? You women aren’t sports, I tell you. Give her a fighting chance. Don’t stand there gloating over it. This business of afternoon-tea scandals has gone too far.”
“Why, George,” she said nervously, “I only meant to warn her of—”
“But you’ve broken her up, completely. Now, look here,” he said more seriously than she had ever heard him speak. “This is no small matter. Let’s get a little British fair play into this business. Do you know what I’m going to do?”
He brought his fist sharply into his opened palm.
“I’m going to get Mauney Bard. If he’s a man he’ll stand his trial and either deny it or not.” He started for the door, picking up his hat from a table nearby. Then before leaving he turned. “Ladies,” he said. “I will request you both to wait my return.”
“But, George,” said Mrs. MacDowell, “I think such a thing is absurd.”
“And I don’t want it either,” said Freda.
“Well, you’re both a fine lot, by Gad,” said MacDowell, impatiently tossing his hat to the table. “All right. But one thing I insist on, Gloria, and that is that you immediately govern your tongue. This is your house, but it is my home and this is my daughter.”
MacDowell sauntered slowly back to the library, while his wife somewhat informed as to new qualities in her married partner, departed quickly for the kitchen and began making unnecessary noise with the dishes. Freda proceeded to her room and was not seen again until eight in the evening, when she came down and passed through, without speaking, on her way to the garage. They heard the rumble of the motor-car and both watched, from different vantage points, as it sped quickly between the pine trees on its way to Queen Street. During the evening, while MacDowell in the library, as Mayor of Lockwood, gave audience to some business men from Merlton, his wife sat playing solitaire on the southern verandah.