Her employer smiled in spite of himself. He quickly regained his air of grave composure, however. “No, I don’t mean the Willoughbys; I mean the death of your husband,” he said, rebukingly.
“Oh, that!” exclaimed Jane, smiling sweetly. “Why, you see, that’s really the reason why I’m so gay now. When De Mille was alive, I was always so solemn. He had no sense of humor—it really takes two to see a joke, you know—and consequently I was depressed most of the time. Since his passing away”—Jane thought this sounded well—“I laugh most of the time—the reaction, I suppose.”
Ormsby handed his cup for some more tea. “No sugar this time,” he said, coldly. Jane looked at him wistfully.
“I suppose I’m a disappointment to you—as a heroine, I mean,” she remarked, almost humbly. “Perhaps”—regarding him tentatively—“if you had known I was not serious you would not have engaged me.”
Ormsby shrugged his shoulders. “You answer my purpose very well,” he answered, indifferently, blissfully unaware that Jane’s fingers were itching just then to box his ears. “But you know,” he went on, determinedly, “woman should take some things seriously.”
“I do,” responded Jane. “I take you seriously.”
Ormsby ignored her and continued: “Life is not a huge joke, you know. It——”
“You remind me of my first husband,” interrupted Jane, frowning. “He talked like that.”
“First?” he queried. Jane blushed. Then she said, defiantly: “Is it so improbable that I shall marry again?”
“Oh, that reminds me,” he said, with that air of impersonal interest which, in the beginning, had secretly infuriated Mrs. De Mille, and which now unaccountably depressed her. “Will you allow me to ask you a question?”