"More important than playing cards," Abbott returned. He could not meet the eyes of this man he had once highly venerated—it was like beholding an ideal divested of imagined beauty, shivering in the shame of its nakedness.
Gregory fought off the inevitable: "If you refer to losing your position at the public school—"
"No. Clinton has come home from Springfield, and we have a matter—"
"It's pressing business," spoke up Robert, who all this time had been asking Mrs. Gregory if her mother was well, if Simon Jefferson was no worse, if Fran was hearty, if Grace Noir was at home—"and private business."
Abbott looked warningly at his friend to remind him of his promise not to utter a word. Robert, remembering, tightly compressed his lips, and marched over to the piano. He leaned upon it heavily.
"I have no business," Mr. Gregory exclaimed, in fear, "that my wife need not know."
"This is—" cried Robert. Then remembering, he struck the keys a resounding chord.
Mrs. Gregory was about to leave the room.
"No, no!" exclaimed Mr. Gregory, starting to the door to intercept her, "I want you to stay. I'll have no secrets from you, Lucy. I want you to hear what these gentlemen have to say." He glared at Abbott as if daring him to speak the words that must destroy his wife's last feeble hold on her position.
"I hope Mrs. Gregory will excuse us," said Abbott, smiling at her as cheerfully as he could, "but she knows that there are matters of business that women don't understand, or care to learn. This is something that relates merely to you, Mr. Gregory, and ourselves."