"I can't discuss that with you," said George Deaves stiffly.
Evan's eyebrows went up. "Indeed!" he said.
The weak man could not face out Evan's indignant stare. "Oh, I don't blame you," he mumbled. "But I'm sorry I listened to you yesterday. Mrs. Deaves is heartbroken at what she considers my deception."
Evan reflected grimly that a broken heart does not customarily take itself out in hysterics, but he kept the reflection to himself.
"You will have to go," said George Deaves.
Suddenly a hurricane blew into the room in the person of Maud Deaves with her hair and kimono flying. The innocent Evan stood aghast at the terrible secrets of the boudoir that were revealed. The magnificent Mrs. Deaves was reduced by rage to the level of a furious fish-wife, but lower, for no fish-wife ever so far neglects self-interest in her rage. Mrs. Deaves' face was splotched and livid; unbridled passion had added fifteen years. She addressed her husband with a ridiculous assumption of calmness.
"They told me this person was here. I came down to see that you did your duty! This clever rascal has twisted you about his finger once too often for me!"
Evan flushed up. "Are you referring to me?"
"Yes I am!" she cried. "You've been a nuisance in the house from the first with your officious meddling! You take too much on yourself! You forget your place!"
"Good Heavens, madam, I didn't write the story about your marriage!" said Evan with meaning.