“No, it’s not, my boy,” he was corrected. “You’re off the line. That’s what he really thinks—and, by God, he shows it. He’s like a dog with a bone. He snarls and turns up his lip the moment you come into the place. Or if he comes late and finds any one there—as he mostly does—he sulks. ’Pon my soul, I hate the brute.” The young man tilted back his hat, and looked up at the sky—a pale blue sky, irradiated by the sun and by the burnished copper wires of our affairs. “Where are we now—end of April?—beginning of May? She came to town in February—and here we are in May. I believe he’s only been away from the house for three days on end—and that’s just now when he’s in Paris.”
“You ought to know,” said Bramleigh: the other snorted.
“I do know. He’s up to no good, that chap, I’ll bet you he’s not. He’s not a good sort with women, I happen to know. Now—”
“May a man ask,” Lord Bramleigh interjected, “what you are up to?”
Lord Gunner looked down at him in surprise.
“Oh, you may, Bramleigh. I can stand it from you. I’m all right, you know; I wouldn’t hurt her. She’d have a pretty stiff time of it with old Fowls-of-the-air Germain[[A]] if it wasn’t for some of us, who go and amuse her. She’s a jolly girl, you know, and she deserves something.”
“Dash it all,” cried Bramleigh, “she got something when she married old Germain. She had nothing at all. I’m told he picked her up in a nursery.” Lord Gunner jerked an angry head.
“Yes, I know, I know. That wasn’t the game, I’ll be shot. Why, any one could have done it! He played the God in the Machine; came bouncing out of the sky, and sent the servant in for her. ‘Beg pardon, miss, but here’s the Archangel Michael come for you. Best clothes, please, shut your eyes, and you’ll be married to-morrow.’ That was the way it was sprung upon her. What was a girl to do but bless her stars, and say she’d be with him directly? Well, and what I say is, If old Fowls-of-the-air finds he ain’t up to the part, he can’t drop it and leave her in the lurch. If he can’t make himself entertaining, he must be helped.”
“That’s what Duplessis says,” Lord Bramleigh supposed. But Gunner could not allow it.
“I beg your pardon. He says, ‘My bread, I believe.’ He’s a grabber. The mischief of it is that I can’t say anything.”