'Listen, Martha!' Was it possible that she suspected something? But how could she! His ears were getting red again. He knew it. She must never, never know about Mamie!... 'Listen, I may have to go down to Mrs Arthur V. Henderson's.'
'Oh,' she murmured, 'that musicale.'
'Yes.' Eagerness was creeping into his voice. 'Anne Mayer Stelton. She's been over studying with Marchesi, you know. Mrs Henderson asked specially to have me cover it.'
'Why don't you go?'
'Well—you see how it is. Of course, I'd hate——'
'You'd better go.' Saying which Martha turned away down Filbert Avenue, and left him standing there.
He bit his lip; pulled at his moustache. 'I ought to do something for her,' he thought. 'Buy some flowers—or a box of Devoe's.'
This was an idle thought; for the day, Thursday, lay much too close to the financially lean end of the week to permit of flowers or candy. And he hadn't asked anywhere for a dollar of credit these nearly two years. Still, he felt faintly the warmth of his kindly intention.
It didn't seem altogether right to let her go like that. They had not before drifted so near a quarrel. On the farther side of the street he paused, and glanced down the avenue.
A smart trap that he had never seen before had pulled up, midway of the block. An impeccable coachman sat stiffly upon an indubitable box. A man who appeared to have reddish hair, dressed in a brown cutaway suit and Derby hat, a man with a pronounced if close-cropped red moustache and a suggestively interesting band of mourning about his left sleeve, was leaning out, gracefully, graciously, talking to—Martha. And Martha was listening.