"It's well enough," conceded Mrs. Prentice, amiably. "And how have you been all these years?"
Mr. Barrett, with some haste, replied that his health and spirits had been excellent.
"You look well," said Mrs. Prentice. "Neither of you seem to have changed much," she added, looking from him to her daughter. "And I think you did quite well not to write. I think it was much the best."
Mr. Barrett sought for a question: a natural, artless question, that would neutralize the hideous suggestion conveyed by this remark, but it eluded him. He sat and gazed in growing fear at Mrs. Prentice.
"I—I couldn't write," he said at last, in desperation; "my wife——"
"Your what?" exclaimed Mrs. Prentice, loudly.
"Wife," said Mr. Barrett, suddenly calm now that he had taken the plunge. "She wouldn't have liked it."
Mrs. Prentice tried to control her voice. I never heard you were married!" she gasped. "Why isn't she here?"
"We couldn't agree," said the veracious Mr. Barrett. "She was very difficult; so I left the children with her and——"
"Chil——" said Mrs. Prentice, and paused, unable to complete the word.