“You seem to be taking a good deal for granted. Because you don’t know anything about him, it’s no reason to suppose the worst. He certainly looks and acts like a gentleman, and he’s finely educated. And isn’t it better for a girl like Miss Moreau to have a husband to take care of her than to go roaming around by herself, throwing away every chance she gets, for some crazy notion? That young woman’s not able to take care of herself. The best thing for her is to get Barry Essex to do it for her.”
“I’ve known women,” said Mrs. Willers, judicially, “who thought that a bad husband was better than no husband at all. But I’m not of that opinion myself, having had one of the bad ones. Solomon said a corner of a housetop and a dinner of herbs was better than a wide house with a brawling woman. And I tell you that one room in Tar Flat and beef’s liver for every meal is better than a palace on Nob Hill with a husband that’s no account.”
“I’m afraid you’re inclined to look on the dark side of matrimony,” said Mrs. Shackleton, laughing, as she rose from her chair.
“May be so,” said the other; “but after my experience I don’t think it such a blissful state that I want to round up all my friends and drive them into the corral, whether they want to go or not.”
Mrs. Shackleton looked down for a pondering moment. She was evidently not listening. Raising her head she met Mrs. Willers’ half-sad, half-twinkling eyes with a gaze of keen scrutiny, and said:
“Then if it isn’t a love affair, what is it that’s made Miss Moreau change her mind?”
“Ah!” Mrs. Willers shrugged her shoulders. “That’s what I’d like to know as well as you. I can only say what it’s not.”
“And that’s Barry Essex. Well, Mrs. Willers, you’re a smart woman, but you know your business better than you do the vagaries of young girls. I don’t know Miss Moreau well, but I’d like to bet that I understand her this time better than you do.”
She smiled genially and held out her hand.
“My ten minutes are up,” nodding at the clock. “And I’m too much of a business woman to outstay my time limit. No”—in answer to Mrs. Willers’ polite demur—“I must go.”