Patricia presided skilfully with an air of matronly benevolence not to be denied and dextrously diverted the conversation into channels strictly impersonal. So that after dinner, while Charlie Chisolm was still talking rifle-bores with Mortimer, Patricia and Heywood Pennington went into the conservatory to see the new orchids.
That was the first of many dinners. Patricia invited all the eligible girls of her acquaintance, one after another, and sat them next to Mr. Pennington in an apparent endeavor to supply the deficiency she had caused in that gentleman’s affections. But new orchids came continually to the conservatory, and Patricia was not loath to show them. Then followed rides in the motor car when Crabb was down-town, and shopping expeditions when Crabb was at the club, for which Patricia chose Heywood Pennington as her escort, and whatever Mortimer Crabb thought of it all, he said little and looked less.
But if her husband had been willing to worship blindly before he and Patricia had been engaged, marriage had cleared away some of the nebulæ. He had learned to look upon his wife as a dear, capricious being, and with the abounding faith and confidence of amply proportioned men he was willing to believe that Patricia, like Cæsar’s wife, was above suspicion. He was quite sure that she was foolish. But Patty’s little finger foolish was more important to Mortimer than a whole Minerva.
Mr. Pennington’s ways were not Crabb’s ways, however, and the husband learned one day, quite by chance, of an incident that had happened in New York which confirmed a previous impression. He went home a little sombre, for that very night Mr. Pennington was to dine again at his house.
After dinner Patricia and Pennington vanished as usual into the conservatory and were seen no more until it was time for Patricia’s guests to go. The husband lingered moodily by the fire after the door had closed upon the last one, who happened to be the might-have-been.
“Patty,” he began, “don’t you think it a little—er—inhospitable——”
“Oh, Mort,” Patricia broke in, “don’t be tiresome.”
But Mortimer Crabb had taken out his watch and was examining it with a judicial air.
“Do you know,” he said, calmly, “that you’ve been out there since ten? I don’t think it’s quite decent.”