Cabot caught his meaning. “Do you mean to say,” he demanded, “that you asked that—that Phipps woman to marry you and she REFUSED?”
“Eh? Oh, yes, she refused. I told you she would not think of such a thing. That is exactly what she said; it was impossible, she could not think of it.”
“Well, confound her impudence!... Oh, all right, Galusha, all right. I beg your pardon—and hers. But, really—”
Galusha stopped him. “Cousin Gussie,” he said, “if you don't mind I think I won't talk about it any more. You will excuse me, won't you? I shall be all right, quite all right—after I—ah—after a time, you know.”
“Where are you going now?”
“Eh? Oh, I don't know. Just somewhere, that's all. Good-by, Cousin Gussie.”
He turned and walked on again, his hands clasped behind his back and his head bent. Cabot watched him for several minutes, then, entirely upon impulse and without stopping to consider, he began what was, as he said afterwards, either the craziest or the most inspired performance of his life. He walked straight to the Phipps' gate and up the walk to the Phipps' door. His chauffeur called to him that the car was ready, but he did not answer.
Primmie opened the door in answer to his knock. Yes, Miss Martha was in the sitting room, she said. “But, my savin' soul, what are you doin' back here, Mr. Cabot? Has the automobile blowed up?”
He did not satisfy her curiosity. Instead, he knocked on the door of the sitting room and, when Miss Phipps called to him to come in, he obeyed, closing the door behind him. She was sitting by the window and her sewing was in her lap. Yet he was almost certain she had not been sewing. Her face was very grave and, although he could not see distinctly, for the afternoon was cloudy and the room rather dark, it seemed to him that there was a peculiar look about her eyes. She, like her maid, was surprised to see him again.
“Why, Mr. Cabot,” she cried, rising, “what is it? Has something happened?”