Evanston looked at him uncomprehendingly. “Well,” he said, “what of it?”
“I want you to ask Edith what it is,” said Mr. Carteret.
“Why?” said Evanston.
“Don’t ask why. Do it.”
“What use can there be in calling up the past?” said Evanston. “It can only be painful to both of us.”
“Never mind,” said Mr. Carteret; “do it as a favor to me.”
“I think you will have to excuse me, Carty,” said Evanston, somewhat stiffly.
Mr. Carteret moved to the wall and rang the bell. Neither man spoke until the servant appeared. “Please say to Mrs. Evanston,” said Mr. Carteret, “that Mr. Evanston and Mr. Carteret wish very much that she would come to the library.” As the man left the room, Evanston came forward.
“What does this mean?” he demanded.
“My meaning ought to be plain,” said Mr. Carteret. “I intend to have you ask your wife what is on that cushion.” There was something in his tone, in the look in his eyes, which made Evanston’s protest melt away, then transfixed him, then made him whiten and tremble.