She put her lips to his rough face. She whispered rapid, unthought lies into his ear. She caressed and cajoled him, and at last, when Philip had been persuaded into a half-scornful apology, she managed to get Stevens out of the room and started him down the stairway to seek sympathy of Big Lou while she herself had her talk with Beekman.
They sat down again at the round table and took a drink. Philip wanted to upbraid himself for his conduct to her in his mother's house, and yet, because he felt that he could have followed no course save that which he had taken, he did not know how to begin: all that he was sure of was that there was a wrong somewhere, and that he must somehow make confession of it. Mary, on the other hand, was divided between panic from the trouble so lately avoided and a desire to hear from Philip nothing approaching condolence.
She sought escape in the commonplace.
"You mustn't mind him," she said, with a nod toward the stairs down which the glowering Bill had departed.
"Not a bit," answered Beekman. "I only wanted to get rid of him in order to tell you hew sorry I am for—for—oh, you know."
"Don't talk about that, Mr. Beekman—please."
"But I must talk about it."
"Not now; not yet. Tell me how you are."
"Oh, I'm as near right as I ever am, or ever will be. But, Violet——"
"You're looking rich."