'I have read them,' he remarked, in a dry tone.
Alma's coldness during the last few weeks he had explained to himself as the result of his failure to take interest in her proceedings. He knew that this behaviour on his part was quite illogical; Alma acted with full permission, and he had no right whatever to 'turn grumpy' just because he disliked what she was doing. Only today he had rebuked himself, and meant to make an effort to restore goodwill between them; but these newspaper paragraphs disgusted him. He could not speak as he wished.
'This is your agent's doing, I suppose?'
'Of course. That is his business.'
'Well, I won't say anything about it. If you are satisfied, I have no right to complain.'
'Indeed, I don't think you have,' replied Alma, putting severe restraint upon herself to speak calmly. Thereupon she left the room.
Harvey rose to follow her. He took a step forward—stood still—returned to his chair. And they did not see each other again that night.
In the morning came a letter from Dymes. He wrote that a certain newspaper wished for an 'interview' with Mrs. Rolfe, to be published next week. Should the interviewer call upon her, and, if so, when? Moreover, an illustrated paper wanted her portrait with the least possible delay. Were her new photographs ready? If so, would she send him a dozen? Better still if he could see her today, for he had important things to speak of. Might he look for her at Mrs. Littlestone's at about four o'clock?
At breakfast Alma was chatty, but she directed her talk almost exclusively to Pauline Smith and to little Hugh, who now had his place at table—a merry, sunny-haired little fellow, dressed in a sailor suit. Harvey also talked a good deal—he, too, with Pauline and the child. When Alma rose he followed her, and asked her to come into the library for a moment.
'I'm a curmudgeon,' he began, facing her with nervous abruptness. 'Forgive me for that foolery last night, will you?'