CHAPTER XXXIX
THE HEART OF BARBARA
The Ambassador, standing by the mantel, looked thoughtfully at his wife. She sat in a big wicker chair, in a soft dressing-gown, her hands clasped over one knee in a pose very pretty and girlish.
"Come!" he said good-humoredly. "You women are always imagining romances and broken hearts. Why, Barbara and Daunt haven't known each other long enough to fall in love."
She looked at him quizzically. "Do you remember how long we had known each other when you—"
"Pshaw!" he retorted. "That's just like a woman. She never can argue without coming to personalities. Besides, there never was another girl like you, my dear—I couldn't afford to take any chances."
"Away with your blarney, Ned! You know I'm right, though you won't admit it."
"Of course I won't. Daunt's not a woman's man. He never was. He's been getting along pretty well with Barbara, no doubt. But this man she's going to marry she's known for a year. The bishop told me about him the day after they landed. He thought she was practically engaged to him then."
"'Practically!'" she commented with gentle scorn. "Are girls who have been properly brought up ever 'practically' engaged, and not fully so? She may have expected to marry him, and yet if I ever saw a girl in love—and, oh, Ned, remember that I understand what that means!—she was in love with Daunt yesterday. We women see more than men and feel more. Patsy saw it too. She's feeling badly about it, poor child, I think."
"Nonsense!" the ambassador sniffed. "There isn't a shred of evidence. Barbara's not a flirt in the first place, and, if she were, Daunt can take care of himself."
"He came to your study, didn't he, after the ball? I thought I heard his voice in the hall."