Wayne laid the tablet on the desk before him and studied it with care for a moment, then a dawning consciousness of what had happened caused him to strike the table with his clenched hand.
“Great Lord, he’s ashamed of her!” he ejaculated, so loudly that he turned guiltily and glanced about to make sure that he was alone. The situation visualized itself sharply before him. Broderick was a name eloquent of wealth and social distinction. He had known one of the sons of the house at the “Tech.” The roots of the Brodericks struck deep into New England soil. Wayne had often heard his father call Colonel Broderick the ideal American citizen; a Harvard overseer high in the councils of the University; spokesman for his city on many notable occasions; author of a history of his regiment, and patron of arts and letters. The Bostonian was everything that Colonel Craighill would like to be. It was utterly incredible that the Brodericks would invite a man to their house whose wife was unacceptable; nor was it a plausible theory that Mrs. Craighill would, on her own motion, abandon a journey that promised pleasure after its attractiveness had been enhanced by an invitation which in itself conferred distinction. He had not read social ambition into Adelaide Craighill’s scheme of life; what she had married for, he had honestly felt, was shelter and protection; but she was young, and to be pardoned a degree of social curiosity. She had shown no disposition to advance herself adventitiously, but here was her first opportunity to try her palate upon the unaccustomed fruits of her new life. As he pondered, with a deep frown on his face, he saw the arc of his own opportunity broaden. His father’s wife had already turned to him once for sympathy; and the possibilities of sympathy in such a situation—the bright line of danger, its hazards and penalties—fascinated him as he dwelt upon the prospect. As an anodyne to his conscience he dwelt upon the humiliating plight of his father’s wife, young, not without her charms and with a right to the enjoyment of life, put aside as though she were a troublesome child. It was his own chivalry, he assured himself, that rose in arms to her defense.
He drew the top down upon the disorder of his desk and was soon whirling homeward.
Mrs. Craighill sat in her upstairs sitting room, sewing. A wood fire crackled cosily; about her were the countless trifles with which a woman invites comfort and ease. The impression of smartness that Mrs. Craighill always gave was not lacking to-day. It may be inferred that she knew her own decorative values. The subdued blue of her gown matched the wallpaper—or seemed to. Her delicate features, the soft curve of her cheek, her fair round arms, free from the elbow, the careful disposition of her hair, swept high from her forehead, were items calculated to charm any eye. She turned her head a trifle, hearing a motor in the driveway below, and her hands fell to her lap with the bit of needlework she was engaged upon. When the car passed on to the garage she resumed her work, bending her head so that her neck presented its prettiest arch to the open door. She hummed softly as she heard Wayne’s step drawing near. When his voice sounded behind her she did not turn, but held up one hand, and waved it, calling a careless, familiar “hello” to his own greeting.
He walked to the fire and swung round, facing her, his hands thrust in his pockets.
“Well?”
“I didn’t expect you home for luncheon. How did you leave Philadelphia?”
“Oh, I left it with pleasure; the usual way.”
“I suppose the amusing Mr. Wingfield took good care of you?”