“Arrange what?”
“Why, smooth everything out, don't you know. But, Rodney, I do want you to do something for me; not for me exactly, but about this. Won't you look out for Mr. Delancy in this deal?”
“Seems to me you are a good deal interested in Jack Delancy,” said Henderson, in a sneering tone. The remark was a mistake, for it gave Carmen the advantage, and he did not believe it was just. He knew that Carmen was as passionless as a diamond, whatever even she might pretend for a purpose.
“Aren't you ashamed!” she cried, with indignation, and her eyes flared for an instant and then filled with tears. “And I try so hard.”
“But I can't look out for all the lame ducks.”
“He isn't a duck,” said Carmen, using her handkerchief; “I'd hate him for a duck. It's just to help me, when you know, when you know—and it is so hard,” and the tears came again.
Did Henderson believe? After all, what did it matter? Perhaps, after all, the woman had a right to her game, as he had to his.
“Oh, well,” he said, “don't take on about it. I'll fix it. I'll make a memorandum this minute. Only don't you bother me in the future with too many private kites.”
Carmen dried her eyes. She did not look triumphant; she just looked sweet and grateful, like a person who had been helped. She went over and kissed her lord on the forehead, and sat on the arm of his chair, not too long, and then patted him on the shoulder, and said he was a good fellow, and she was a little bother, and so went away like a dutiful little wife.
And Henderson sat looking into the fire and musing, with the feeling that he had been at the theatre, and that the comedy had been beautifully played.