“Fan!”
“Well, what now?” was the response from his pretended servant.
“About this matter with Maynard. It’s time for me to call him out. I’ve been thinking all day of how I can find a second.”
It was a subterfuge not very skilfully conceived—a weak, spasmodic effort against absolute humiliation in the eyes of his wife.
“You’ve thought of one, have you?” interrogated she, in a tone almost indifferent.
“I have.”
“And who, pray?”
“One of the two fellows I scraped acquaintance with yesterday at dinner. I met them again last night. Here’s his name—Louis Lucas.”
As he said this he handed her a card.
“What do you want me to do with it?”