Wayne roused himself at this and grinned.
“You might be sure father would take a sanguine view of the situation. That’s his way. It doesn’t make any difference what you call it—a panic or a shortage of currency or anything else—the country’s been scared to death and the fright isn’t over yet.”
He drank his tea and ate hungrily the sandwiches she had made. The news that his father had been at the bank until midnight interested him; he knew that the Hercules carried his father’s paper for a very large amount, and that it was maturing. Seeing that the mention of the financial stringency had interested Wayne, Mrs. Craighill jumped to the conclusion that the Craighill fortunes were in jeopardy and that Wayne’s condition was due to the anxious state of affairs downtown. She had believed her husband very rich and the thought that he might experience reverses was not pleasing. She had passed an unhappy day after her interview with her husband that morning touching the unfortunate Boston excursion. She had spent the evening alone and, though Wayne did not know it, she had telephoned to the Allequippa Club and to the Penn and asked for him. She had much to tell him and as he seemed more like himself, now that the hot tea had warmed his chilled body, she was quite ready to prolong this interview for her own relief and pleasure. She was charming en neglige and her hair in long braids added its note of intimacy.
“It’s nice to see you. If you won’t tell—really and truly—I’ll confess something.”
“Well?” he scowled.
“Dear me, you’ll have to do a lot better than that, Waynie, dear.”
“Don’t call me Waynie; it makes me sick.”
“Oh,” she pouted and threw herself back in her chair.
“What is it you wanted to tell me?” he demanded.
“Nothing.”