Preston had been seated in an arm-chair without the slightest indication of disturbing himself either for his wife or the visitor. At this announcement by Mrs. Newberry he rose with what, for him, was alacrity.
"I'll call her myself," he said.
"But, Preston! Think of it!"
"That is just what I am doing, my dear—and I think confoundedly well of it, let me tell you."
"In his motor!" Mrs. Newberry repeated the phrase as if it were pregnant with evil.
"What's the matter with his motor?" snapped Preston. "It's a motor, you say, not a monoplane. Mr.—Mr. Stainton has money enough to buy a safe motor—as motors go."
"Oh, Preston, consider: Muriel—alone—morning! The child isn't even really out yet!"
At this, Newberry fronted his wife squarely. For perhaps the first time in his life, he suffered the pains of definite assertion.
"Now, understand, Ethel," he said, "let's cut out all this rot about Muriel. The girl is not such a child and she is out: she's out of school, and that's all the outing she's going to get. In fact, it's high time she was in again."
"She can't go back to the convent, Preston."