“We’re going out to the vestibule, Theodore. I don’t propose to get left.”
A moment ago, Mr. Mix had been arguing that the smiles and sympathy of his fellow-passengers were cheap at the price, but when he 274 rose and escorted Mirabelle down the aisle, he was telling himself that the old-fashioned principle was best––the wife’s property ought to pass under the absolute control of the husband. He was strengthened in this conviction by the fact that two fashionable young men in the corner were snickering at him.
“Home again,” said Mirabelle, with a sigh of relief. “Home again, and time to get to work. And I’m just itching for it.”
Mr. Mix said nothing: he was wondering how soon he could get to his private caché, and whether he had better put in a supply of young onions in addition to cloves and coffee beans. He hadn’t yet discovered whether Mirabelle had a particularly keen scent: but he would take no chances.
“Stop staring at those girls, Theodore!”
“I may be married,” said Mr. Mix, defensively. “But I’m dashed if I’m blind.... Immodest little hussies. We’ll have to tackle that question next, Mirabelle.”
The train eased to a standstill: he helped her down to the platform. The big car was waiting for them: and as the door slammed, Mr. Mix 275 sat back luxuriously, and beamed at the chauffeur. Yes, virtue had its compensations; and as soon as he had money to his own credit, he would figuratively take Mirabelle by the scruff of the neck, and he would tell her just exactly how to behave, and he would see that she did it. But for the present––soft diplomacy.
Mirabelle clamped his arm. “Why, what’s that policeman stopping us for, right in the middle of a block!”
“Search me....” He opened the door, and he leaned out, imperially. “What’s wrong, officer? We weren’t going over twelve or thirteen––”
The policeman, who had brought out a thick book of blank summonses, and an indelible pencil, motioned him to desist. “What name?”