“Venable?” George repeated. “Did you say Venable?”
“Yes; the baritone. He’s still just in his prime; at least so his agent says. Have you ever heard him?”
“Long ago,” the other returned. “I——” He stopped abruptly.
“Did you know him?” Martha asked.
“No. That is, I had a short interview with him once, but—no, I shouldn’t say I know him.” He rose, in courtesy to the departing Harlan, and extended his hand. “You mustn’t wait behind the next corner and leap out on me with a bowie-knife, Oliphant,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be such a disagreeable arguer.”
“Not at all,” Harlan returned, somewhat coldly, though he added an effect of geniality to his departure by a murmur of laughter, and got away without any further emphasis upon his disappointment at finding his rival in possession. The latter gentleman, however, made little use of the field left open to him. Not long after Harlan had gone Martha noticed that her remaining guest seemed to be rather absent-minded, and she rallied him upon it.
“I’m afraid you thrive upon conflict, Mr. McMillan.”
“Why?”
“Peace doesn’t seem to stimulate you—or else I don’t! You’ve hardly spoken since Mr. Oliphant left. I’m afraid you’re——”
“You’re afraid I’m what?” he said, as she paused; and although the dusk had fallen now, it was not too dark for her to see that his preoccupation was serious.