“Gave copies to all his friends, did he? Do you see what Leila’s written here and those marked lines? Do you realize what it means—that it’s written to your wife?”
“That’s ridiculous, father,” Shep stammered. “It’s not written to Connie any more than to any other young woman—a sort of ideal of George’s, I suppose. Connie’s name written there is just a piece of Leila’s nonsense.”
“How many people do you suppose thought the same thing? Don’t you know that there’s been a good deal of unpleasant talk about Connie and Whitford? There was that play they appeared in—written by Whitford! I’ve heard about that! It caused a lot of talk, and you’ve stood by, blind and deaf, and haven’t done a thing to stop it!”
“I can’t have you make such statements about Connie! There was nothing wrong with that play—absolutely nothing! It was one of the finest things the club ever had. As for George having Connie in mind when he wrote that poem—why, that’s ridiculous! George is my friend as much as Connie’s. Why, I haven’t a better friend in the world than George Whitford!”
“You’re blind; you’re stupid!” Mills stormed. “How many people do you suppose have laughed over that—laughed at you as a fool to let a man make love to your wife in that open fashion? I tell you the thing’s got to stop!”
“But, father,” said Shep, lowering his voice, “you wouldn’t insult Connie. She’s downstairs and might easily hear you. You know, father, Connie isn’t exactly well! Connie’s going—Connie’s going—to have a baby! We’re very, very happy—about it——”
Shep, stammering as he blurted this out, had endeavored to invest the announcement with the dignity it demanded.
“So there’s a child coming!” There was no mistaking the sneer in Mills’s voice. “Your wife has a lover and she is to have a child!”
“You shan’t say such a thing!” cried Shep, his voice tremulous with wrath and horror. “You’re crazy! It’s unworthy of you!”
“Oh, I’m sane enough. You ought to have seen this and stopped it long ago. Now that you see it, I’d like to know what you’re going to do about it!”