“That’s what a man couldn’t see. I knew it by a lot of little things I couldn’t put into words if I tried, but principally I knew it by watching her manner with Mrs. Cromwell.”
“You mean she tried to ingratiate herself?” he asked. “Her manner was more winsome or flattering than usual?”
“No, not exactly. Not so open—you couldn’t understand—but it was perfectly clear to me she was having the time of her life thinking of what she’d done to me through my husband’s weakness, when all at once she thought of my influence with the Cromwells. Well, she’s afraid of it, and it made her wish she hadn’t gone quite so far with me. She’d give a whole lot to-night, I’ll wager, if she’d been just a little less picturesque with her gauntlet throwing and her mocking laughter! You asked me what I was going to do and I told you ‘Nothing.’ But she’ll do something. She’s afraid, and she’ll make a move of some sort. You’ll see.”
“But what? What could she do?”
“I don’t know, but you’ll see. You’ll see before long, too.”
“Well, I’m inclined to hope so,” he said. “It would certainly be interesting; but I doubt her making any move at all. I’m afraid you won’t turn out to be a good prophet.”
On the contrary, he himself was a poor prophet; for sometimes destiny seems to juggle miraculously with coincidences in order to attract our attention to the undiscovered laws that produce them. In fact, Mr. Dodge was so poor a prophet—and so near to intentional burlesque are the manners of destiny in its coincidence juggling—that at this moment Mrs. Leslie Braithwaite’s husband had just rung the Dodges’ front door bell. Two minutes later a mulatto housemaid appeared in the doorway of the library and produced a sensational effect merely by saying, “Mrs. Braithwaite and Mr. Braithwaite is calling. I showed ’em into the drawing-room.”
She withdrew, and the staggered couple, after an interval of incoherent whispering, went forth to welcome their guests.