Netty, soft-footed and soft-voiced, returned to announce that the carriage was ready. Mrs. Swinton thereupon threw away her cigarette, and gathered up her train. For one moment, she bent over her husband’s shoulder, and pressed her soft, fair cheek to his.
“Don’t look so worried, dear,” she murmured. “What’s a thousand dollars! Why, I might win that much at bridge, to-night.”
“Don’t, darling, don’t!” the husband groaned, distractedly.
Any mention of bridge was as salt upon an open wound to him. He knew that his wife played for 20 high stakes among her own set—indeed, every parishioner of St. Botolph’s knew it; it was a whispered scandal. Yet, her touch thrilled him, and he was as wax in her fingers. She spent her life in an exotic atmosphere, but he knew that there was no evil in her nature. There were weaknesses, doubtless; but who was weaker than he, and where is the woman in the world who is at once beautiful and strong?
The man without, lurking beside the window, watched the departure of the mother and daughter. He remained within the shadow until the yellow lights of the carriage had disappeared through the gates; then, he came forward, just as Rudd, the manservant, was closing the front door.
“What, you again?” gasped the servant.
“Yes. It’s all right, I suppose? He ain’t here?”
“The young master?” Rudd inquired, with a grin. “No. And it’s lucky for you that he ain’t.”
“Parson in?” came the curt query.
“Yes,” Rudd answered, reluctantly.