“Oh, yes,” I said. “They melted the buttons to make bullets, didn’t they? Or they melted bullets to make buttons? Which was it?”
But again he interrupted.
“It’s like this,” he went on hurriedly. “Aunt Selina believes in me. She likes pictures, and she wanted me to paint, if I could. I’d have given up long ago—oh, I know what you think of my work—but for Aunt Selina. She has encouraged me, and she’s done more than that; she’s paid the bills.”
“Dear Aunt Selina,” I breathed.
“When I got married,” Jim persisted, “Aunt Selina doubled my allowance. I always expected to sell something, and begin to make money, and in the meantime what she advanced I considered as a loan.” He was eyeing me defiantly, but I was growing serious. It was evident from the preamble that something was coming.
“To understand, Kit,” he went on dubiously, “you would have to know her. She won’t stand for divorce. She thinks it is a crime.”
“What!” I sat up. I have always regarded divorce as essentially disagreeable, like castor oil, but necessary.
“Oh, you know well enough what I’m driving at,” he burst out savagely. “She doesn’t know Bella has gone. She thinks I am living in a little domestic heaven, and—she is coming tonight to hear me flap my wings.”
“Tonight!”
I don’t think Jimmy had known that Dallas Brown had come in and was listening. I am sure I had not. Hearing his chuckle at the doorway brought us up with a jerk.