“I don’t care a bit. Mr. Mortimer knows I didn’t mean anything nasty. I’m always saying shocking things, and no one minds a bit.”
“Any more than when a kitten scratches,” said West.
“A kitten’s scratches hurt, and mine don’t. It’s mean of you to sit the other side of Alice, so that I can’t pull your hair. We have her here, Mr. Mortimer, to keep us good, and to make her better.”
“Aggie trying to make epigrams! What next! Heaven defend the poor man whose wife makes epigrams.”
Quite mistakenly, Mortimer counted himself an onlooker at life, delighting to sound the characters of his friends and when possible, to understand their doings. This night, as he lay awake, his thoughts dwelt upon the company of three with whom he had passed the evening. He had known Philip West for years, and considered him a strong, determined, pushing man. From small beginnings inherited from an uncle he had built up vast Stores known over London, indeed all the world over, thanks to skillful and persistent advertising. He was a man of considerable culture and refinement, one who, so Mortimer believed, would look for much in his wife, for much more, at any rate, than he would obtain from any pretty, overgrown schoolgirl. Agatha certainly was beautiful and her baby ways charming, but were they not likely soon to pall upon such a man as West? There was a further point: was she not simply a fair-weather mate? Would he not find her hopelessly wanting in any time of stress and storm? Could she shake herself free from her love of dress, luxury and excitement? Mortimer felt sorry for her; she was lovable, but helpless. To see her suffer would be as bad as to watch the pain of a pretty pet animal.
The third of the trio—Alice Lane? Mortimer tried to set aside his innate distaste for her and his suspicion that she despised him as a trifler, endeavoring to judge her justly. He had watched her closely, and had discovered that she in turn was closely watching West and his wife. She was obviously on intimate terms with Philip and apparently was entirely trusted by Agatha, but Mortimer had learned to mistrust the continued harmony of such a trio. A wrong note was sure to be sounded sooner or later. If Agatha failed or palled upon him, West would certainly turn to some other woman. If he held out his hand to Alice Lane, would she take it? Mortimer thought not, for he recognized that there was a great deal that was noble in her. But, then, she might hold that it was a noble part to help, in defiance of the world’s opinion, the man she loved. That she did love West he had so far seen no cause to believe, but he fancied that more than once when Agatha and her husband had indulged in open display of their affection she had shrunk back with some stronger emotion than mere distaste.
To Mortimer this openly displayed fondness was amusing and even grateful; it pleased him to meet a couple in their position whose refinement had not blunted their impulses. He felt himself old beside them, sighing as he thought that such innocuous sweets were insipid to him.
With that sigh he closed his eyes and fell asleep, leaving the future to expound itself.
Billiards and conversation helped the Sunday hours to pass rapidly, until at length Mortimer found himself late at night sitting alone with West.
“One more cigar and one more whisky,” said the latter, suiting the action to the word.