At the Savoy, Floyd heard many flattering things about his beautiful wife. He was silent, kept turning over the pages of the hotel register, finally found the name he was looking for—“Martin Steele, New York.” Then he wired Miss Mary and left at once for Switzerland, made quick connections, arriving at Tarasp toward evening. The stage-coach from Val Sinestra was expected. He paced up and down before the hotel, his thoughts stinging like a swarm of bees.
He had married well, he was a happy man—in the world’s vocabulary.
Happy? A man who marries Beauty lives on a powder mine. The something which compels adoration makes a woman unfit for matrimony. A man can’t always be on his knees; that’s very well at night—but he becomes a ridiculous figure in the daylight.
The coach shambled up the road. Mary was the only passenger; she nodded and smiled at him. He helped her out.
“Were you surprised to get my telegram?”
“Yes.”
“You understood?”
Mary waited. She wasn’t sure how much he knew.
“Why did Dr. McClaren send my wife to Europe without me?”