Geneviève stared. Uncle Martin snickered, for Uncle Martin had the gift of understanding.
"You mean those flowers of womanhood whom chivalrous man——"
"Shut up," commanded George. He thought for a brief space; then his jaw set. "Excuse me a moment."
Drawing hotel stationery toward him, he scribbled rapidly and then sealed and addressed what he had written.
"Uncle Martin, your car's outside doing nothing; would you mind going on ahead and giving this little note to Cousin Alys Brewster-Smith, and then staying around and having a little supper with Geneviève and me? We'll be out soon, but there are a few things I want to talk over with Geneviève alone before we come."
Uncle Martin would oblige. But when he had gone, there seemed to be nothing of pressing importance that George had to communicate to Geneviève. Nor half an hour later, when he led his bride of four months up to their home, had he delivered himself of anything which seemed to require privacy.
As they stepped up on the porch, softly lighted by a frosted bulb in its ceiling, Cousin Emelene, her cat under her arm, came out of the front door and hurried past them, without speech.
"Why, Cousin Emelene!" George called after her.
She paused and half turned.
"You—you—" she half choked upon expletives that would not come forth. "The man will come for my trunks in the morning." Thrusting a handkerchief to her face, she hurried away.