Baron, homeward bound, marvelled at Thornburg. It seemed strange that a crude, strong man should feel obliged to shape his deeds to please an ungracious, suspicious wife. He felt sorry for him, too. He seemed to be one of those blunderers whose dealings with women are always bewildering, haphazard experiments.
He had promised to call that evening—to lend his aid to the manager. It was the sensible thing to do, of course. They had to get rid of Bonnie May. Nothing was to be gained by debating that point any further. And yet....
When he reached home he was hoping that his mother might, on some ground or other, have changed her mind.
He speedily learned that she had done nothing of the kind.
Indeed, matters were a little more at cross-purposes than they had been the night before. Mrs. Baron had tried again to make a dress for the fastidious guest, accepting certain of Flora’s suggestions, and the result of the experiment hadn’t been at all gratifying.
Baron received the first report of the matter from Bonnie May, who was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs when he entered the house.
“You will please make no unkind remarks about my new dress,” she began, assuming the attitude of a fencer, and slowly turning around.
The subject—and the child’s frivolous manner—irritated Baron. “Really, I think it’s very pretty and suitable,” he said.
“Not at all. It’s neither pretty nor suitable—though both words mean about the same thing, when it comes to a dress. But it’s a great improvement on that first thing. I told your mother that. I told her I’d wear it until I got something better.”
Baron sighed. “What did she say to that?”