"What the devil does he want?" Hector Brunton looked up from a letter he was studying; rose to his big feet, and straddled himself before the fire as his subdued clerk ushered his father through the doorway.
"This is an unexpected honor, sir," said Hector Brunton, K.C.
The old man took off his top-hat, laid it among the papers on the desk; retained his malacca; and sat himself down pompously on an imitation mahogany chair.
"I've come to talk to you about your wife," he began tactlessly; and without more ado plunged into a recital of his interview with Julia Cavendish and his chance meeting with Aliette, concluding: "And if you take my advice, the best thing you can do is to start an action for divorce."
"As I told you before, sir," broke in the K.C., who had listened with restrained anger to his father's recital, "I regret I cannot take that advice." The hands trembled behind his back. "If I may say so, I consider that you've put me entirely in the wrong by calling on Mrs. Cavendish."
"Oh, you do, do you?" The old man, already sufficiently excited for one afternoon by his interview with the two ladies, felt his temper getting the better of him. "You do, do you? Well, I don't. Mrs. Cavendish is a very delightful woman. A woman of the world."
"Is that all you came to tell me, sir?" Hector's gray eyes smoldered.
"No, sir." The senior service beard bristled. "I came to have this matter out once and for all. I came to tell you that you're not behaving like a gentleman."
"So you said before, sir. And I repeat the answer I gave you then. I see no reason why I should behave like a gentleman to a wife who hasn't behaved like a lady."
"Two blacks don't make a white, Hector."