Dominick did not answer her. The servant presented a dish at his elbow and he motioned it away with an impatient gesture.
Berny, who was not looking at him, went on.
“What kind of clothes did she wear? They say she’s an elegant dresser, gets almost everything from Paris, even her underwear. I suppose she didn’t have her best things up there. But she must have had something, because the papers said they’d gone prepared for a two weeks’ trip.”
“I never noticed anything she wore.”
“Well, isn’t that just like you, Dominick Ryan!” exclaimed his wife, unable, at this unmerited disappointment, to refrain from some expression of her feelings. “And you might know I’d be anxious to hear what she had on.”
“I’m very sorry, but I haven’t an idea about any of her clothes. I think they were always dark, mostly black or brown.”
“Did you notice,” almost pleadingly, “what she wore when she went out? Mrs. Whiting, the forelady at Hazel’s millinery, says she imported a set of sables, muff, wrap and hat, for her this autumn. Hazel says it was just the finest thing of its kind you ever laid your eyes on. Did she have them up there?”
“I couldn’t possibly tell you. I don’t know what sables are. I saw her once with a fur cap on, but I think it belonged to Willoughby, an Englishman who was staying there, and used to have his cap hanging on the pegs in the hall. It’s quite useless asking me these questions. I don’t know anything about the subject. Did you wind the clock while I was away?”
He looked at the clock, a possession of his own, given him in the days when his mother and sister delighted to ornament his rooms with costly gifts and in which he had never before evinced the slightest interest.
“Of course, I wound it,” Berny said with an air of hurt protest. “Haven’t I wound it regularly for nearly three years?”