The two men were just mounting the steps.
“My dear,” began her husband, sensing her mood, glancing up apprehensively, “this is Mr. Brachey. He—
“Yes,” said she, standing squarely in the doorway, “I understand. Mr. Brachey, I can not receive you in this house. You, of course, know why. I must ask you to go at once.”
Then she simply waited; commandingly. From her eyes blazed honest, invincible anger.
Mr. Boatwright caught his breath; stood motionless, very white; finally murmured:
“But, my dear, I'm sure you...”
His wife merely glanced at him.
Brachey stood as she had caught him, on the steps, one foot above the other. His face was expressionless. His eyes fastened on the woman a gaze that might have meant no more than cold curiosity, growing slowly into contempt. Then, after a moment, as quietly, he turned and descended the steps.
Boatwright caught his arm.
“Really, Mr. Brachey—”