“It’s too bad,” she persisted, “that marriage isn’t an insurance of happiness. Now George and Constance are ideally suited to each other; but they never knew it until it was too late. I wish he’d go to Africa or some far-off place. If he doesn’t there’s going to be an earthquake one of these days.”
“Well, earthquakes in this part of the world are never serious,” Bruce remarked, uncomfortable as he found that Constance’s friend was really serious and appealing for his sympathy.
“You probably don’t know Franklin Mills—no one does, for that matter—but with his strict views of things there’d certainly be a big smash if he knew!”
“Well, of course there’s nothing for him to know,” said Bruce indifferently.
The maid came in to announce dinner and Constance and Whitford reappeared.
“George has been reciting lovely poetry to me,” said Constance. “Nellie, has Bruce kept you amused? I know he could make love beautifully if he only would!”
“He’s afraid of me—or he doesn’t like me,” said Mrs. Burton—“I don’t know which!”
“He looks guilty! He looks terribly guilty. I’m sure he’s been making love to you!” said Constance dreamily as though under the spell of happy memories. “We’ll go in to dinner just as we are. These informal parties are always the nicest.”
III
Whitford was one of those rare men who are equally attractive to both men and women. Any prejudice that might have been aroused in masculine minds by his dilettantism was offset by his adventures as a traveler, hunter and soldier.