“Evelyn writes that her mother is much incensed that I met her as she states, clandestinely, and forbids that she go again to stay with Madame Van Ness,” he said. “It is unfair—unjust! Next time——” His mouth closed like a steel trap. “I begin to think like Madame Van Ness.”
Maynard looked at him keenly. “What do you mean?”
“Madame Van Ness told me Wednesday afternoon that Mr. and Mrs. Burnham both disliked me; for what I know not, but she suggested——”
“Yes, go on!” There was subdued eagerness in Maynard’s tone.
“She suggested that while Mrs. Burnham’s prejudice against me might be prompted by her husband, his dislike was traceable to an event in Paris. But it hardly seems possible,” he broke off to add.
“Oh, go on, man; I can judge better perhaps than you.”
“Burnham had his face slapped by André de Sartiges at the club in Paris; he did not challenge, as is the French custom.” Maynard, drinking in what he said, nodded comprehension. “Later Burnham cut short his visit in Paris, or so I heard afterward; I was but a spectator at the quarrel in the club; in fact the scene was ridiculously funny and I laughed.”
Back to Maynard’s memory came Evelyn’s words: “Mr. Burnham hates to be made ridiculous.”
“Hump! It looks as if your sense of humor had cost you a bride,” he remarked dryly. “Burnham has apparently brooded over your untimely mirth until he has exaggerated it into a capital offense.”
“But then he is of unbalanced mind!” exclaimed La Montagne, astonished. “To think of a laugh seven years old and charge me with an attempt to kill because of it—Mon Dieu!” He shook his head. “Are such things possible? But yet Madame Van Ness believes Burnham’s enmity is of the past, and she is discerning.”