“I don't dislike him,” said Carroll. “I've not a thing against him. But we could never be in the slightest degree sympathetic. He and I don't—don't—”
“Don't jibe,” Orde finished for her. “I didn't much think you would. Joe never was much of a society bug.” It was on the tip of Carroll's tongue to reply that “society bugs” were not the only sort she could appreciate, but she refrained. She had begun to realise the extent of her influence over her husband's opinion.
Newmark did not live at the hotel. Early in the fall he had rented a small one-story house situated just off Main Street, set well back from the sidewalk among clumps of oleanders. Into this he retired as a snail into its shell. At first he took his meals at the hotel, but later he imported an impassive, secretive man-servant, who took charge of him completely. Neither master nor man made any friends, and in fact rebuffed all advances. One Sunday, Carroll and Orde, out for a walk, passed this quaint little place, with its picket fence.
“Let's go in and return Joe's call,” suggested Orde.
Their knock at the door brought the calm valet.
“Mr. Newmark is h'out, sir,” said he. “Yes, sir, I'll tell him that you called.”
They turned away. As they sauntered down the little brick-laid walk, Carroll suddenly pressed close to her husband's arm.
“Jack,” she begged, “I want a little house like that, for our very own.”
“We can't afford it, sweetheart.”
“Not to own,” she explained, “just to rent. It will be next best to having a home of our own.”