“My husband.”
“Really? Lucky man. Good-by.”
Maddison went with him to the front door, and when he returned found Marian standing before the canvas.
“Yes! I’m a rebel!” she exclaimed. “My husband! Do you know, George, I’d clean forgotten all about him; absolutely. All that life is just like a dream, and I’m awake now. Even when you called me Mrs. Squire it did not recall him to me. Yes, I’m a rebel! But they don’t call you rebels, do they, when you’ve revolted successfully? Why didn’t you go to lunch?”
He slipped his arm round her waist as he answered——
“I didn’t like rushing off from you, so I told an artistic lie. I don’t want to go to the dinner, but West’s a goodish fellow, and was wise enough to buy my pictures when no one else would. So I’m a bit in his debt.”
“Who is he?”
“He is the West. ‘If you want to get the best—go West,’ you know.”
“Oh, West’s Stores. He’s a millionaire, isn’t he?”
“Awfully, horribly, disgustingly rich. But he doesn’t do as much harm with his money as most rich men. He hasn’t bought pictures wholesale, or built a gimcrack mansion in Park Lane. He gave tons of money once to a royal hobby and then refused a knighthood. When I congratulated him, he laughed and said it was good advertising. I believe he dabbles in politics; he’s a socialist—only rich men can afford to be—and talks about running the Empire on business lines. It’ll take a greater man than even he to make politicians capable of any business transaction, except buying votes with promissory notes. Chiefly notes blown on their own trumpets.”