Fanny drew herself up proudly.
“Of course I haven’t talked much about it, Jim,” she said, with dignity; “but Wesley and I had a—a little misunderstanding. It’s all explained away now.”
And to this meager explanation she stubbornly adhered, through subsequent soul-searching conversations with her mother, and during the years of married life that followed. In time she came to believe it, herself; and the “little misunderstanding with Wesley” and its romantic dénouement became a well-remembered milestone, wreathed with sentiment.
But poised triumphant on this pinnacle of joy, she yet had time to think of another than herself.
“Jim,” said she, a touch of matronly authority already apparent in her manner. “I’ve wanted for a long time to talk to you seriously about Ellen.”
Jim stared.
“About Ellen?” he repeated.
“Jim, she’s awfully fond of you. I think you’ve treated her cruelly.”
“Look here, Fan,” said Jim, “don’t you worry yourself about Ellen Dix. She’s not in love with me, and never was.”
Having thus spoken, Jim would not say another word. He gulped down his supper and was off. He kissed Fanny when he went.