“Well, you’re a mighty fine girl, Gertie. You know I think so.”
The tears in Mrs. Burgess’s eyes made necessary some more tangible expression of his affection than this, so he walked round and kissed her, somewhat to the consternation of the butler who at that moment appeared to clear the table.
“As to money,” he continued when they had reached the living-room, “I got rid of some stock I thought was a dead one the other day and I meant to give you a couple of thousand. You may consider it’s yours for clothes or orphans or anything you like.”
She murmured her gratitude as she took up her knitting but he saw that the wound caused by his ungallant reference to Mrs. Gurley’s wardrobe had not been healed by a kiss and two thousand dollars. Gertrude Burgess was a past mistress of the art of extracting from any such situation its fullest potentialities of compensation. And Webster knew as he fumbled the evening newspaper that before he departed for the meeting of the War Chest Committee that demanded his presence downtown at eight o’clock he must make it easy for her to pour out her latest grievances against Mrs. Gurley. He is a poor husband who hasn’t learned the value of the casual approach. To all outward appearances he had forgotten Mrs. Gurley and for that matter Mrs. Burgess as well when, without looking up from the Government estimate of the winter wheat acreage, he remarked with a perfectly-feigned absent air:
“By-the-way, Gertie, you started to say something about that Gurley woman. Been breaking into your fences somewhere?”
“If I thought you would be interested, Web——”
This on both sides was mere routine, a part of the accepted method, the established technique of mollification.
“Of course I want to hear it,” said Webster, throwing the paper down and planting himself at ease before her with his back to the fire.
“I don’t want you to think me unkind or unjust, Web, but there are some things, you know!”
He admitted encouragingly that there were indeed some things and bade her go on.