"This is Doctor Moon—this is my wife."
A man a little older than her husband, with a round, pale, slightly lined face, came forward to meet her.
"Good evening, Mrs. Hemple," he said. "I hope I'm not interfering with any arrangement of yours."
"Oh, no," Luella cried quickly. "I'm delighted that you're coming to dinner. We're quite alone."
Simultaneously she thought of her engagement to-night, and wondered if this could be a clumsy trap of Charles' to keep her at home. If it were, he had chosen his bait badly. This man—a tired placidity radiated from him, from his face, from his heavy, leisurely voice, even from the three-year-old shine of his clothes.
Nevertheless, she excused herself and went into the kitchen to see what was planned for dinner. As usual they were trying a new pair of servants, the luncheon had been ill-cooked and ill-served—she would let them go to-morrow. She hoped Charles would talk to them—she hated to get rid of servants. Sometimes they wept, and sometimes they were insolent, but Charles had a way with him. And they were always afraid of a man.
The cooking on the stove, however, had a soothing savor. Luella gave instructions about "which china," and unlocked a bottle of precious chianti from the buffet. Then she went in to kiss young Chuck good night.
"Has he been good?" she demanded as he crawled enthusiastically into her arms.
"Very good," said the governess. "We went for a long walk over by Central Park."
"Well, aren't you a smart boy!" She kissed him ecstatically.