"What is it, Doctor? Physically she seems to be all right. Can it be that she is going to pieces mentally? Why, she's always been the most loving, gentle—"
"Nerves, Bingle—plain nerves. She'll be all right in a little while, I'm sure. I'll have a look at her again next week. In the meantime, don't pull such a long face. She is as sound as a dollar physically, as you say. Leave her to me, old fellow. Don't cross her, don't let her see too much of the children, and don't object to her going to visit her mother in—where is it?—if she wants to do so. By the way, Bingle, I wouldn't adopt any more children at present, if I were you. Wait for a year or two and see how she feels about it."
"Would you advise a trip to Europe? We've been contemplating it for the past ten years, but—I'm ashamed to admit it—we're both scared out of our boots when we think of being out there on the Atlantic with two or three miles of water under our beds every night and icebergs floating all around us. We want to see Paris and London, of course. Every one ought to see 'em if he can afford it. If you think it advisable, I'll take her across this summer. Maybe if she got to Paris she'd forget she ever wanted to go to Peekskill."
"I'll let you know what I think of it later on, Bingle. We'll see. I've never seen your garden looking better than it looks this summer. You have a treasure in that man Edgecomb. Come, let's stroll down to the Italian—"
"Not just now, Doctor," said Mr. Bingle hastily. "I think Miss Fairweather and Flanders are down there enjoying the shade and the music of the fountain."
The servant question was another bothersome thing for him to contend with. They were dissatisfied and on the point of leaving, especially the new nursemaids. A general increase in wages served as a temporary restraint, and a second increase was plainly in sight. For the first time in his life Mr. Bingle possessed a secret unshared with his wife: he did not tell her of the raise in wages.
Flanders announced that rehearsals for the play would be started early in July. The company had been chosen and a theatre taken in his own name. Mr. Bingle preferred to remain a silent and unrecognised instrument in the enterprise. He remembered in time that he was a deacon in the church hard by, and was sorely afraid that while his own conscience might be perfectly clear in the matter it wasn't by any means certain that the congregation possessed the same kind of a conscience.
It became necessary, therefore, for Miss Fairweather to give up her place and prepare for the task ahead of her, especially as her role called for a bit of dancing in the second act, demanding considerable preliminary work under the instruction of a teacher. Mrs. Bingle was rather glad to see her go. Secretly she was beginning to mistrust the young lady's intentions where Mr. Bingle was concerned. It was her recently formed opinion that one can never trust an actress, no matter how closely she is watched or how frankly she looks you in the eye while you are watching.
Mr. Bingle called Miss Fairweather and the good-looking Flanders into his study a few days before the time set for her departure. He closed the door carefully behind them and then crossed over to glance out of the window into the garden, where Mrs. Bingle was chatting earnestly with Dr. Fiddler in the shade of a glorious oak. Mr. Bingle had had something on his mind for a long, long time. The fate of Agnes Glenn was at the back of it.
"When do you two expect to be married?" he asked bluntly, taking them both by surprise. They turned quite red and looked at each other in evident dismay.