Part 33 (2/2)

He stared. He had never heard her talk like this before. ”Ah, um,” he murmured, still worrying the mustache. She was using no slang, and that ”Continental att.i.tude”--his glance said, ”Where did you come by _that_?”

”I've known all along that you had the Old World bias--the idea that it is justice for the Pot to call the Kettle black--the idea that a man can do anything, but that a woman is lost forever if she happens to make one mistake. That all belongs, of course, right back where you came from. No doubt your mother taught----”

”Please leave my mother out of this discussion!” Here was something he could say with great severity and dignity--something that would imply the contrast between what Clare Crosby stood for and the high standards of his mother, whose fame might not be tarnished even through the mention of her name by a culpable woman.

Clare laughed. ”Early Victorian,” she commented, cheerfully; ”that do-not-sully-the-fair-name-of-mother business. It's in your blood, Felix,--along with the determination you feel never to change when once you've made up your mind, as if your mind were something that has set itself solid, as metal does when it's run into a mold.”

”Oh, indeed! Just like that!”

She nodded. ”Precisely. And when you make up your mind that someone is wrong, or has hurt your vanity (which is worse), you are just middle-cla.s.s enough to love to swing a whip.”

He got up. ”Pardon me if I don't care to listen to your opinion of me any longer,” he said. ”It just happens that I've caught you at your tricks today.”

”It just happens that you _think_ you've caught me--you've dropped to that conclusion. But--do you know anything?”

”Well--well,----”

”You shall. Please sit down again. And feel that you were justified--that I am really a culprit of some kind--just as you are.”

He sat, too astonished to retort--but too curious to take himself away.

”Because I really want to tell you quite a little about myself.” There was a glint of real humor in her eyes. ”And first of all, I want to tell the real truth, and it'll make you feel a lot better--it'll soothe your vanity.”

”You seem to have a rather sudden change in your opinion of me.” He tried to be sarcastic. And he leaned back, folding his arms.

”Oh, no. I've always known that you were vain, and hard. But I didn't expect perfection.”

”Ah.”

”But, first, let me tell you--when I left Tottie's just now, I thought of the river. Suicide--that's what first came to my mind.”

”I'm very glad you changed it,”--this with almost a parental note. Her mention of the river had soothed his vanity!

”Oh, are you?” She laughed merrily.

”And what brought about the--the----”

”Sue Milo.”

”Er--who do you say?” He had expected a compliment.

”A woman you don't know--a woman that you must have seen go into Tottie's just after Barbara left--as you stood sentry.”

”Ah, yes.” He had the grace to blush again.

”She is the secretary at the Church near by--you know, St. Giles. She keeps books, and answers telephones, and types sermons, and does all the letters for the Rector--formerly my husband.”

An involuntary start--which he adroitly made the beginning of an a.s.sent.

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