“Nina is having hysterics upstairs,” Mr. Wheeler said, and continued his pacing.
“Nina! Hysterics?”
“That's what I said,” replied Mr. Wheeler, suddenly savage. “You've made a nice mess of things, haven't you?”
Leslie placed the box of orchids on the table and drew off his gloves. His mind was running over many possibilities.
“You'd better tell me about it, hadn't you?”
“Oh, I will. Don't worry. I've seen this coming for months. I'm not taking her part. God knows I know her, and she has as much idea of making a home as—as”—he looked about—“as that poker has. But that's the worst you can say of her. As to you—”
“Well?”
Mr. Wheeler's anxiety was greater than his anger. He lowered his voice.
“She got a bill to-day for two or three boxes of flowers, sent to some actress.” And when Leslie said nothing, “I'm not condoning it, mind you. You'd no business to do it. But,” he added fretfully, “why the devil, if you've got to act the fool, don't you have your bills sent to your office?”
“I suppose I don't need to tell you that's all there was to it? Flowers, I mean.”