I was thoroughly old-fashioned. My notion of wife was the independent, self-respecting equal of her husband. That is, I had the typical American husband’s ideal—the ideal that dates from the pioneer days of no property and of labor for all, the ideal the American man still lives up to, the one that enables woman to betray him. And, having this ideal, I never permitted myself—no, not even when I spoke to her the contrary in words—I never permitted myself to feel that my wife was not in the main what she should be.
If you have borne me company thus far, gentle reader, turn away now. For, dreadful things are coming. I said to Armitage: “Your sister—she’s still in the country?”
“No, she’s abroad,” replied he. “She’s visiting friends in Budapest. Later on she’s to yacht in the East Mediterranean—she and the Horace Armstrongs and Beechman—and—” He gave several names I do not now recall.
“Is she engaged to Beechman?” I asked carelessly, but the question was not one that could sound other than raw.
He smiled—an expression I did not like. At first I thought it a rebuke to my impertinence. Afterwards I saw no such notion was in his mind. “Beechman? Good Lord, no.”
“You are sure?”
“Absolute. He’d not dare go in that direction with her.”
“Why not?” said I.
“Oh—well—you see— She doesn’t care for him,” replied Armitage lamely. I was not liking him so well, now that I knew the world—his world—better and could judge its beliefs and its hypocrisies more accurately.
“He’s an unusual man,” said I. “She might easily care for him.”