He wanted breakfast badly. He also wanted to show Kathleen how unconcerned he was, that he was not hurt and bewildered and angry. He stood in the hall, talking to Charley. He was aware of Kathleen’s voice in a near-by room, talking to that vixenish young woman.
“Married life’s a great thing!” said Charley dismally.
“Sure is!” said Brecky.
He couldn’t imagine how any man could marry if he couldn’t marry Kathleen. He despised and hated Kathleen, but in common justice he had to acknowledge to himself that she was the prettiest and sweetest girl in the world, and utterly superior to all other women. She was—
Just then he heard her speaking. She had a clear voice that carried well.
“No,” she was saying. “I think I’ll make some pancakes for Johnny’s breakfast. But see here—you needn’t tell him I made ’em, Grace. I don’t want him to think—but he looks dead tired, and he does love pancakes!”
That did for Brecky. He ran down the hall and pushed open a door. It opened into the kitchen, and Kathleen, in an apron, stood at the table, before a large bowl. He paid no attention to the second cousin. He darted around the table and took Kathleen in his arms.
“Oh, come on home!” he said.
She began to cry at once, very comfortably, with her head buried in his coat.
“Don’t be silly!” he said anxiously. “See here, Kathleen! Listen! We’ll get a cook. We’ll go to the theater, and—”