“I don’t recall the name,” said Jerome. “Do you, Miss Creecy? It is ‘Lover’s Quarrel,’ or some such twaddle, I think.”
Mell thought it was something of that kind, but she furthermore expressed the opinion that it would be well-nigh impossible to get it up in time for the delectation of the Honorable Archibald.
“Which is no great pity,” declared the off-hand Rube; “I wish he’d take himself elsewhere to be delectated.”
There was no doubt as to Rube’s preferences for a brother-in-law; which, however, did not take away from the awkwardness of this remark. Not suspicious, neither was Rube obtuse; he noted a singular contraction on Jerome’s brow, he noted a strange confusion in Mell’s manner, and he put it all down to his own blundering tongue, which was always placing his best friend either in a false or in an annoying position before Mell. Out of these considerations he made haste to subjoin:
“Ah, Mellville, you should have seen Devonhough how splendidly he acquitted himself in our class plays at college!”
This was a pure offering from friendship’s store. Honest Rube, with his fine open countenance all aglow with enthusiasm for his friend and joy in the presence of the woman he loved, looked the archetype of hopeful young manhood, untouched, as yet, by sorrow or mistrust. Regarded from an architectural standpoint, he had the sublime simplicity and dignity of the Doric, which was just wherein he differed from Jerome, who was a Corinthian column, delicately chiselled, ornately moulded.
Mell remarked, in reply to this expression of lively admiration from Rube, that she wished she could have seen Mr. Devonhough—or something. Mr. Devonhough, with the expression of a man whose self-respect will not admit of his bearing much more, said with an impatient “Pshaw,” that she needn’t wish to have seen him, that this good acting of his was all in Rube’s eye, and nowhere else; that he hated an actor, and that he never would act another part himself, as long as he lived, not to oblige anybody, and so help him God!
After which, shadowed by clouds, beleaguered with dark thoughts, with sombre fires of jealousy smoldering in his eye, and war-hounds of anxiety gnawing at his vitals, he abruptly turned and left the room—not with his usual deliberation.
And still Rube saw nothing.