“It is,” said Bret. “Go on. I’ve found that I didn’t owe you that last one. I misunderstood. I apologize.” Bret said this not because of any feeling of cordiality, but because he believed it especially important not to be dishonest to an enemy.
Eldon, with equal punctilio and no more affection, answered: “I imagine the offense was outlawed years ago. I never knew what the cause of your anger was, but I’m glad if you know it wasn’t true.”
Silence fell upon them. Bret was wondering whether he ought to describe the injustice he had done Eldon. Eldon was debating whether it would be more conspicuous to ask about Sheila or to avoid asking about her. Finally he took a chance:
“And how is Mrs. Winfield?”
The question cleared the air magically. Bret said, “Oh, she’s well, thank you, very well—that is, no, she’s not well at all.”
Bret had attempted a concealment of his cross, but the truth leapt out of him. Eldon was politely solicitous:
“Oh, I am sorry! Very sorry! She’s not seriously ill, I hope.”
“She’s worse than ill. I’m worried to death!”
Eldon’s alarm was genuine. “What a pity! Have you been to see a specialist? What seems to be the trouble?”
“She’s pining away. She—I think I made a mistake in taking her off the stage. I think she ought to be at work again.”