I met a singular lack of welcome. Rosalie gave me a limper hand than usual, and took an early opportunity of leaving me tete-a-tete with her mother, who conversed frigidly about the warm weather. The very tea, if possible, was colder.
I met Judith by appointment in Kensington Gardens, and walked with her homewards. I mentioned my chilly reception.
“My dear man,” she observed—I dislike this apostrophe, which Judith always uses by way of introduction to an unpleasant remark—“My dear man, I have no doubt that you have as unsavoury a reputation as any one in London. You are credited with an establishment like Solomon’s—minus the respectable counter-balance of the wives, and your devout relatives are very properly shocked.”
I said that it was monstrous. Judith retorted that I had brought the calumny upon myself.
“But what can I do?” I asked.
“Board her out with a suburban family, as you should have done from the first. Even I, who am not strait-laced, consider it highly improper for you to have her alone with you in the house.”
“My dear,” said I, “there is Antoinette.”
“Tush”—or something like it—said Judith.
“And Stenson. No one seeing Stenson could doubt the irreproachable propriety of his master.”
“I really have no patience with you,” said Judith.