“I, myself, will contribute all the wheat grown on the middle wheat field,” replied Colonel Tremaine. And then, looking toward Mrs. Tremaine, added: “We can afford to be generous now that we have but two sons whom we can in honor own.”
Angela, who was sitting at the table, turned pale and then crimson, and after a moment rose quietly and left the room. All knew what she meant by this silent protest—she was Neville Tremaine’s wife and nothing could be said against him in her presence, even by implication, without her resenting it.
After supper, when Colonel and Mrs. Tremaine were in the library, they sent for Angela and she came in promptly.
“My dear,” said Colonel Tremaine, in his most polished and elaborate manner, “I have to beg your pardon for a most unfortunate allusion which I inadvertently made at supper.”
“It was, indeed, most unfortunate,” answered Angela quietly.
Colonel and Mrs. Tremaine looked at her and felt as if the center of the universe had dropped out. Here was this child, the companion of Archie, daring to assert herself, nay, to assert the dignity of her position as Neville Tremaine’s wife.
She was, however, so clearly right that Colonel Tremaine, after a gasp or two, finished what he had begun to say.
“We understand perfectly what your attitude must be, and if by chance allusion we seem to forget this, I beg that you will excuse us, and believe that it is very far from intentional.”
Angela bowed and left the room.
It was not uncommon for Colonel Tremaine to make these elaborate apologies and to ask pardon from the Throne of Grace when he had offended, and he had been known, when the family was assembled for prayers, to offer a ceremonious explanation for having thrown his boot jack at Jim Henry’s head.