“I want to see Mrs. Stephens!” he said, curtly, to the servant.
“She’s at supper, sir. Will you wait?”
“No; just ask her to step here and speak to me!”
“What name, please, sir?”
“Her husband,” he said, grimly.
They were all in the dining-room, enjoying the “Sunday night tea” of their tradition. Gilbert sat at the head of the table and made jokes, like a patriarch; opposite him was Claudine, on one side Edna and Malloy; on the other, Bertie and Andrée. They lingered; they had not yet thought of rising from the table when the maid entered with her message.
“Mr. Stephens is upstairs, ma’am!” she whispered to Andrée.
“Who is it?” asked Gilbert, in the tone of a man who is master in his own house.
“Mr. Stephens, sir,” answered the girl.
He turned red; he was sorry he had asked; he was very much at a loss. And so was everyone else. This proscribed man actually under this roof! Gilbert was torn between his anger at the fellow’s audacity and the respect due him as a husband. Propriety conquered.