“Do you want everybody in the corridor to hear of it?” asked Brinkley, from behind a newspaper.
“I know one thing,” continued Mrs. Brinkley, dropping her voice a couple of octaves. “They will never get him here if I can help it. He won't come, anyway, now Miss Anderson is gone; but I'll make assurance doubly sure by writing him not to come; I'll tell him they've gone; and than we are going too.”
“You had better remember the man in Chicago,” said her husband.
“Well, this is my business—or I'll make it my business!” cried Mrs. Brinkley. She went on talking rapidly, rising with great excitement in her voice at times, and then remembering to speak lower; and her husband apparently read on through most of her talk, though now and then he made some comment that seemed of almost inspired aptness.
“The way they both made up to me was disgusting. But I know the girl is just a tool in her mother's hands. Her mother seemed actually passive in comparison. For skilful wheedling I could fall down and worship that woman; I really admire her. As long as the girl was with us she kept herself in the background and put the girl at me. It was simply a masterpiece.”
“How do you know she put her at you?” asked Brinkley.
“How? By the way she seemed not to do it! And because from what I know of that stupid Pasmer pride it would be perfectly impossible for any one who was a Pasmer to take her deprecatory manner toward me of herself. You ought to have seen it! It was simply perfect.”
“Perhaps,” said Brinkley, with a remote dreaminess, “she was truly sorry.”
“Truly stuff! No, indeed; she hates me as much as ever—more!”
“Well, then, may be she's doing it because she hates you—doing it for her soul's good—sort of penance, sort of atonement to Mavering.”