“Of his being what?” Carruthers inquired, looking up.
“So far away,” she finished lamely. “You see, you are on the spot.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “I wish I wasn’t. As though a man’s own domestic troubles aren’t sufficient without his being expected to shoulder another man’s neglected responsibilities. There are people whose business it is to undertake these cases. If Mrs Arnott wants advice she knows where to procure it.”
“Oh! a woman never goes to a lawyer until she has exhausted every other resource,” Mrs Carruthers interposed.
“You are letting your imagination run away with your commonsense,” Carruthers resumed. “It is more than possible that you have discovered the proverbial mare’s nest. Because Arnott leaves home a few hours after the governess has done a bunk is no reason for concluding that they have eloped together. The explanation is probably much more simple.”
“Then I wish you would explain it,” she said with mild exasperation.
“Very likely they had a row,” he returned; “and Arnott cleared out. It’s the male equivalent for feminine hysteria. A jealous woman can make things fairly uncomfortable.”
“He shouldn’t give her cause for jealousy.”
“Well, there of course,” replied Carruthers, amused, “your argument is unassailable. But these things will happen. Man was born to be a hunter, you know; and throughout the ages woman has remained his favourite quarry. It’s pure instinct with us; and occasionally, as in Arnott’s case, instinct and opportunity occur simultaneously. In employing a good-looking underling, a married woman courts disaster.”
“Dickie,” exclaimed his disgusted wife, “how dare you talk like that? I am ashamed of you.”