“Well, and what had he to say? Do you know, Barbara, I object, for it just occurs to me that he is without a wife... having already disposed of one. Truly I object to his calling on you.”
“But he is papa's friend——”
“Oh, is he? Well, he is a precious old fool—that's my opinion of him.”
Philip, conscious of the slightness of the claim he had upon her, dreaded a possible rival. He knew the sanction to his suit was only passive—the least thing might bring about the most pronounced opposition.
“He is not so very old: he is only forty-five. He regards himself as still youthful, for he assured me this was the age of the young man,” said Barbara.
“It's the age of the damn fool,” Philip grunted savagely, and then penitently: “That was a case of justifiable damn: it was wrung from me, Barbara. It's so exasperating to hear such twaddle.”
“I believe you're jealous, Philip. I really believe you are!”
“Of course I am! I am no better than a pauper—and he——”
“How inconsistent of you. The other evening you said you should never care whom I saw. Do be consistent.”
“Consistency is the last refuge of an idiot. Because I say or do a thing once, am I to be tied to it for the rest of my days?”