“How are the girls?” he asked.
“They are very happy,” said Dr. Oberzohn, who had not resumed his seat, but stood in an attitude somewhat reminiscent of Gurther, erect, staring, motionless. “Always my guests are happy.”
“In that dog-hole?” said the other contemptuously. “I don’t want Joan to be here.”
The Herr Doktor shrugged.
“Then take her away, my friend,” he said. “Why should she stay, if you are unhappy because this woman is not with you? She serves no purpose. Possibly she is fretting. By all means—I will bring her to you.” He moved to the door.
“Wait a moment,” said Monty. “I’ll see her later and take her out perhaps, but I don’t want her to be away permanently. Somebody ought to stay with that girl.”
“Why? Am I not here?” asked Oberzohn blandly.
“You’re here, and Gurther’s here.” Monty was looking out of the window and did not meet the doctor’s eyes. “Especially Gurther. That’s why I think that Mirabelle Leicester should have somebody to look after her. Has it ever struck you that the best way out of this little trouble is—marriage?”
“I have thought that,” said the doctor. “You also have thought it? This is wonderful! You are beginning to think.”
The change of tone was noticeable enough now. Monty snapped round at the man who had hitherto stood in apparent awe of him and his judgments.