"And it would be a very good thing for Mr. Marshall to do likewise—very good."
Pete bowed again and made a note of the fact that she had a significant way of tightly closing her lips.
"You're quite sure you understand?"
"Oh, quite—quite."
"Good night," said Mary.
Dismissal was so abrupt that there was nothing to do but accept it. And Pete was not in the least sorry to terminate the interview. In spots he had enjoyed it, but the spots had been infrequent. He was dissatisfied because he had never for an instant been master of it. Talking to Aunt Caroline was easier than talking to Bill's secretary, who did not seem to place a proper value on theology. Hang the business of being a valet, anyhow! Such were the reflections that crowded into his agile mind as he bowed himself out.
He paused on the staircase to consider the matter further. The more he thought about this interview with the social secretary the more it disturbed him. It had not been a matter of mere suggestions on her part; it was very like orders. He recognized a threat when he heard one, even though the threat might be veiled with ironical advice.
"Confound her!" muttered Pete. "That little bird is wise—too wise. I wouldn't object to her simply getting the deadwood on us, if she seemed willing to let it go at that. But she served notice on me that she might make use of it. And I believe she'd do it, if she once took it into her head. What Samson did to the pillars of the temple isn't a marker to the house-wrecking job she can do, once she decides to get busy at it."
Up-stairs, he opened the door to Bill's apartments and thrust his head inside.
"Bill!" he said, softly. "She's got the Indian sign on us."