To be sure it was Helen’s secret, but surely she would not object to anything which might serve to arouse her poor husband’s interest, however slightly, and bring him to the point of consenting to return to his home.
Bentnor was short, stout, slightly bald, and somehow radiated comfort, even while sitting astride of a cane-bottomed chair, and smoking another man’s brand of cigarettes, in a one-windowed room nine feet by ten and a half.
“Helen Bentnor Penn’s a great girl, isn’t she, Rob?” No response came from the huddled figure on the bed.
“Of course, all the Bentnors have brains—you must have observed that for yourself; but she’s the first literary genius among us, although I’ve always felt that all I needed was leisure—however, that’s neither here nor there. Helen has arrived, and shall have the honor. Why, the editor who accepted that clever little lever de rideau of hers and brings it out in this month’s issue of his magazine, was downright enthusiastic—can you imagine an editor having any enthusiasm left in him, Penn? I can’t, for one. Must have a magnificent flow of gastric juice! However that may be, this chap has taken Helen up con amore, and written advice as to some changes, and given her interviews and all that. Most amateurs have to have several ‘fittings,’ I suppose. And then the check he sent her—by Jove, even I was surprised!”
Robert looked up for the first time, and turned a haggard face, blank with wonder, toward his wife’s brother. Ben laughed.
“Well, I suppose it is a bit of a shock to a man to find that his wife’s brains have a market value.” He was greatly encouraged by Penn’s aroused interest and hurried on with his tale:
“It strikes me I oughtn’t to be telling you this, Rob, for it was Helen’s birthday surprise for you. She’s been in an ecstasy over it for about eight weeks. Don’t you tell her I’ve told you! Promise!”
“Trust me,” murmured Penn, and a smile twitched at his face.
“Such plottings and plans and secrecy! I’ve been in it up to the neck from the first. On your birthday—somehow she’s in love with you yet, Penn—Lord, how does a man do that?—for breakfast she was to show you the magazine within whose fold is to be found her first literary lambkin; for luncheon—for you were to spend the day at home—she was going to give you the check! Generous little beggar, Nell! She said she had never been able to really give you anything before—she had only bought with your money and forced upon you things you didn’t want. Then that night after dinner she and I were to act her two-part play—we’ve been at it for weeks, tooth and nail, powder and patches——”
“You and Helen!” gasped Robert.