"Whew! how confoundedly hot and dusty is New York at this season," he splutters, mopping his face with his handkerchief. "The thermometer up in the nineties, and the dust in clouds that choke and blind one. An hour of life at Langton Villa is worth a year in this noisy, abominable place. Reine, let us go home."
She stares at him with wide, dismayed dark eyes.
"Uncle, he—he is gone?" she falters.
"Gone, yes, the impertinent young puppy," he growls. "Gone without a word, utterly ignored me and my telegram. I wish to Heaven——" he pauses with a dark frown.
"What, Uncle Langton?" with pathetic wistfulness.
"That—that I'd never married you to him, the scamp!" he blurts out in a fury. "He has treated us both with the most distinct contempt. We will go home, dearie, and Vane Charteris may go to the devil!"
This from the irate old man, but Reine looks at him bravely.
"Uncle Langton, I object to your calling names," she says, distinctly. "Mr. Charteris is my husband. I insist that you shall respect that fact."
"A pretty husband," he mutters.
"No one shall blame him in my hearing," she goes on with shy, pretty dignity. "After all, it was unfair to hang an unloved wife like a millstone around his neck."