“Confess!” he said. “You love to have your friends in trouble so you can cosset them!”
“Oh, no. Shame on you, Antony Paul! But I do love to cosset them when they are in trouble, which is not the same thing in the least!” Joan defended herself. “This is not a little trouble. Mr. Latham must be desolate. Dear, splendid Mr. Latham! And how Anne can ever bring herself to be happy with Kit, knowing it, is beyond me.”
“I grant you all you like on the Latham side of it. He must be hard hit and it’s a bad matter, that’s sure. But as to Anne and Kit—poppycock, Madam Sentimentalia! The idea of an old matron like you talking such nonsense! What shall we give them, silver or glass? And here’s this to consider, Joan: As a matter of economy of unhappiness, there are two happy by this arrangement, one unhappy. I’m no end sorry about Latham, but that seems to economize pain. Perhaps his unhappiness is durable and deep enough to throw out my arithmetic. Well, however it works, we’ve no hand in it, though apparently my sister-in-law had!” Antony laughed, and added: “I’ve got to go back downstairs; I left my watch on the table.”
When Antony was going back for his forgotten watch Minerva was softly closing the door of Miss Carrington’s room.
“Miss Carrington, I have news for you,” she announced. “Mr. Latham’s engagement to Miss Dallas is broken.”
“Good heavens! Minerva, what makes you think so?” demanded Miss Carrington, swinging her feet to the floor and sitting erect on her couch.
“I know so,” Minerva corrected her. “I have been to the movies with Mrs. Lumley. This afternoon the Berkley child was there. Mr. Latham was hoity-toity when she came. He’s been that way lately, Mrs. Lumley says; tickled to death his play’s done, and happy over being engaged. Well, when little Anne left he sat alone on the garden bench for the longest time, looking about killed; just limp and half dead. Then in comes Miss Dallas and they talked. You could see from the house it was serious, Mrs. Lumley says. Then Miss Dallas cried on his shoulder and he treated her like she had a broken bone, or her last, final sickness on her. At last he kissed her hands; kind of like a deathbed scene, Mrs. Lumley said it was. She was in the dining room, but it has those magnesia blinds you can turn, so she saw it all plain. Then Mr. Latham came into the house, and after a little Miss Dallas went away. Mrs. Lumley didn’t see her go, because she went back into the pantry when Mr. Latham came in, and went on with her mayonnaise. Not that she needed to; he went right on up to his room. He didn’t come to dinner, nor would he let Stetson take up a tray; nothing but coffee later on. So it’s surely broken. Mrs. Lumley says there’s no more doubt of it than of the laws of the needs of Prussians. I thought you’d better know.”
“What can have happened? It sounds like a renunciation as you describe it,” murmured Miss Carrington. “Kit has been strange lately. He walked about last night for ages. I tapped on his door and begged him to go to bed, but he only put on slippers and still prowled; it was really worse, for the padded sound is more annoying than a louder one. To-night at dinner he was absolutely silent and colourless. I was going to ask what was wrong, but reflected that a boy hates to have ill-health noticed. He can’t endure Mr. Lanbury; he was dining here, but it was more than that. I do wonder——” Miss Carrington stopped.
“So did I, and so do I, Miss Carrington,” said Minerva. “It sort of looks—— Yet why? And you see little Anne Berkley comes into it there. Mr. Latham was gay till she came and what could she——?” Minerva talked with elisions.