“I’ve always thought you were rather glad he was weak,” ventured the stepmother, her dainty silvered head half lost in the vastness of the biggest trunk. “You have always said——”
“I’ve said I was glad he wasn’t infallible, certainly,” Patsy cut in a bit shortly. “So I am. I wouldn’t have Warren goody-good—like so many handsome men!—for anything. At the same time, you must admit there’s a difference between—well, ordinary flirtation, and the sort of thing Warren’s just confessed to; it must be a very deep interest in a woman, that would allow one to accept her influence in obtaining a Cabinet appointment! I daresay (carelessly) you’ve seen the woman?”
“Yes.” The stepmother’s head was altogether lost to view, this time. “Yes; I’ve seen her.”
“Warren didn’t tell me her name,” Patsy gazed hard at the lace she was folding. “He started to, but I wouldn’t let him. I told him”—she laughed lightly—“I really took no interest. He knew of course I could find out from you, as you’d been staying here in Washington ever since I went away.”
The stepmother opened her lips, but shut them again—rather tightly. Then, “He lost no time in making a clean breast of it,” she said—as though something forced her to say it. “And really, Patsy, the whole affair—well, Warren certainly did not take the initiative; you know a popular young Congressman——”
“Cannot afford to get himself talked about,” finished Patsy, rising to the full dignity of her five feet five. “There is not the slightest use in your pleading for Warren, Claire,” she said coldly. “Of course he knew I should hear all about this Mrs.—Whatever-her-name-is, the first tea-party I’d go to: his telling me, the first morning I got home, is only a part of his other cowardice—he couldn’t bear to have me hear from some one else. One can always tell one’s story more agreeably than the onlooker, you know. However”—and Patsy’s smile made the little stepmother wince—“we’re not twenty-one this time, are we, dear? And it’s not such a serious case as when Warren caught me sliding down the bannisters!”
“I suppose we all like to slide down the bannisters, once in a while?” The stepmother regarded Patsy rather wistfully. No, she was no longer twenty-one, this beautiful, tawny-eyed little person. The ten years since then—well, was not Patsy unpacking her trunks?—and quite calmly? The stepmother wished—as with unreasonable ardor—that they were back again at that day when she had packed them up and left Warren. One can do so much more with the age that takes things tragically, she reflected.
But, as Patsy said, it was not so serious now. Though the bannisters—in the present case—were more slippery. “I suppose we all like to slide down them?” persisted the stepmother. “When our playfellows are gone—and there’s nothing else to do?”
Patsy kissed her. “You’re a dear, Claire,” she said softly. “It’s very evident you’ve never lived in Washington ten years, and been—Warren’s wife,” she ended suddenly. “Oh, I know well enough they never let him alone,” she added, half under her breath; “women can’t, somehow, if a man’s good-looking—and has influence. But there’s Kent Chalmers—one never hears of Kent like that; and he’s quite as attractive as Warren—well, almost—and if he liked he could have twice Warren’s influence. But somehow Kent just saunters along—nothing in particular happens to him, nothing in particular’s said about him. He’s just an agreeable person—clearly, a clubman pure and simple.” Patsy laughed. “That’s funny, isn’t it, dear? A clubman pure and simple! But” (the lovely tawny eyes grew serious again) “Kent is; and he’s miles too good for his wife—you know that, Claire”—Patsy’s voice came from the depths of a huge cupboard, where she was storing away very small boots—“Farleigh Chalmers is nowhere near good enough for Kent.”
The stepmother gazed at the back of Patsy’s head—a little strangely. “No—I don’t believe she is,” she said. “Patsy, I see the Angel—I see Junior coming up the drive—and—no, my dear! He has not got his rubbers on! That child——!”