Ferdinand met them at their door, and performed his efficient and accustomed services.
And then, after a glance at her husband, Eunice went into her own room and closed the door.
Embury smoked a cigarette or two, and at last went to his room.
Ferdinand attended him, and the concerned expression on the old servant’s face showed, though he tried to repress it, an anxiety as to the very evident trouble that was brewing.
But he made no intrusive remark or implication, though a furtive glance at his master betokened a resentment of his treatment of Eunice, the idol of Ferdinand’s heart.
Dismissed, he left Embury’s room, and closed the door softly behind him.
The door between the rooms of Embury and his wife stood a little ajar, and as his hand fell on it to shut it, he heard a stifled gasp of “Sanford!”
He looked in, and saw Eunice, in a very white heat of rage. In all their married life he had never seen her so terribly angry as she looked then. Speechless from very fury, she stood, with clenched hands, trying to command her voice.
She looked wonderfully beautiful like some statue of an avenging angel—he almost fancied he could see a flaming sword!
As he looked, she took a step toward him, her eyes burning with a glance of hate. Judith might have looked so, or Jael. Not exactly frightened, but alarmed, lest she might fly into a passion of rage that would really injure her, Embury closed the door, practically in her very face. Indeed, practically, he slammed it, with all the audible implication of which a slammed door is capable.