“Yes, gone to some Red Cross meeting, so Jones told us.” Maynard smiled broadly. “I rather imagine from what was said at breakfast this morning that Mrs. Burnham laid her husband’s condition to too convivial a disposition.”
Palmer did not smile. “I am afraid she has frequent occasion to think that and with reason. Frankly, Maynard, Burnham has been going at a pretty lively clip during the past six months and unless he pulls up he will be over the precipice,” he said soberly.
Maynard’s mirth vanished. “I am sorry to hear it,” he declared. “Burnham is a good fellow at bottom, and his wife,” Maynard stooped over to pick up his hat which had finally over-balanced and rolled to the floor. There was a pause before he again spoke. “It must be doubly hard on Mrs. Burnham; aside from her affection for her husband she is a proud woman, and to have her affairs discussed in public must go against the grain.”
It was Palmer’s turn to smile. “You weren’t here when their engagement was announced? Well, my good fellow, Mrs. Burnham was then the storm-center of criticism, not to say amusement. No, I can’t believe the public’s opinion, good or bad, influences her actions. She is a law unto herself.”
Maynard shook his head in unbelief. “What part of the country does she hail from?” he asked.
“New York; she comes of old Knickerbocker stock.” Palmer tilted back in his chair. “Her daughter is like her in looks as well as in disposition; she also has a will of her own,” he sighed, then spoke carefully, choosing his words. “I hope to marry her.”
Maynard looked at him, but his grave manner precluded jesting. After all there was not so much difference in Evelyn’s and Palmer’s ages as to make the match unsuitable. Palmer had money, influence, and came of a family long distinguished in his country’s annals. Undoubtedly society’s verdict would commend such an engagement, and yet—Maynard’s thoughts reverted to René La Montague whose aristocratic carriage and good looks were in vast contrast to the square-jawed bulldog type of manhood lolling before him in a swivel-chair.
“I wish you all success in your courtship,” said Maynard, suddenly conscious that an answer was expected of him. “Do Burnham and his wife approve?”
“Burnham does.” Palmer examined his fingernails critically. “I have never been able to get an opinion out of Mrs. Burnham; she can be very evasive when it suits her.”
“Well, the main thing is to win the girl’s affections,” remarked Maynard. “Don’t worry about the mother, her opinion is of secondary importance these days in selecting a husband.”