Trafford gave a nervous cough. "My wife—you know how refined and sensitive she is— She got wind of the impending scandal, and, being very tender-hearted and also having a horror of notoriety, she urged me to try to find a peaceful way out."
"Petticoats!" said Atwater, with derision, but tolerant.
"Not that I would have—" Trafford began to protest.
"No apology necessary. I comprehend. I've got them in the house."
Trafford laughed, relieved. "The ladies are difficult at times," said he, "but, how would we do without them?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," said Atwater dryly. "I never had the good fortune of the opportunity to try it. What did Armstrong say, when you sounded him? I believe you called it 'sounding,' though I suspect— No matter. What did he say?"
"I think you may safely assume the matter is settled. In fact, Armstrong has shown a willingness to make peace."
"Rather!" said Atwater, edging his visitor toward the door. "Good night," he added in the same breath; and he was rid of Trafford. He went slowly back to the piano, and resumed the interrupted symphony softly, saying every now and then, in a half sympathetic, half cynical undertone, "Poor Dillworthy! Poor devil!"
XXVII
BREAKFAST AL FRESCO