“Were you at McVickar’s?” said Hurstwood, with the best grace in the world.
“Yes,” said young George.
“Who with?”
“Miss Carmichael.”
Mrs. Hurstwood directed an inquiring glance at her husband, but could not judge from his appearance whether it was any more than a casual look into the theatre which was referred to.
“How was the play?” she inquired.
“Very good,” returned Hurstwood, “only it’s the same old thing, ‘Rip Van Winkle.’”
“Whom did you go with?” queried his wife, with assumed indifference.
“Charlie Drouet and his wife. They are friends of Moy’s, visiting here.”
Owing to the peculiar nature of his position, such a disclosure as this would ordinarily create no difficulty. His wife took it for granted that his situation called for certain social movements in which she might not be included. But of late he had pleaded office duty on several occasions when his wife asked for his company to any evening entertainment. He had done so in regard to the very evening in question only the morning before.