“It's more than his arm, Billy. You'd see it yourself if you weren't blinded by your absorption in that baby. Where is Bertram every evening? Where is he daytimes? Do you realize that he's been at home scarcely one evening since I came? And as for the days—he's almost never here.”
“But, Kate, he can't paint now, you know, so of course he doesn't need to stay so closely at home,” defended Billy. “He goes out to find distraction from himself.”
“Yes, 'distraction,' indeed,” sniffed Kate. “And where do you suppose he finds it? Do you know where he finds it? I tell you, Billy, Bertram Henshaw is not the sort of man that should find too much 'distraction' outside his home. His tastes and his temperament are altogether too Bohemian, and—”
Billy interrupted with a peremptorily upraised hand.
“Please remember, Kate, you are speaking of my husband to his wife; and his wife has perfect confidence in him, and is just a little particular as to what you say.”
“Yes; well, I'm speaking of my brother, too, whom I know very well,” shrugged Kate. “All is, you may remember sometime that I warned you—that's all. This trusting business is all very pretty; but I think 'twould be a lot prettier, and a vast deal more sensible, if you'd give him a little attention as well as trust, and see if you can't keep him at home a bit more. At least you'll know whom he's with, then. Cyril says he saw him last week with Bob Seaver.”
“With—Bob—Seaver?” faltered Billy, changing color.
“Yes. I see you remember him,” smiled Kate, not quite agreeably. “Perhaps now you'll take some stock in what I've said, and remember it.”
“I'll remember it, certainly,” returned Billy, a little proudly. “You've said a good many things to me, in the past, Mrs. Hartwell, and I've remembered them all—every one.”
It was Kate's turn to flush, and she did it.