"Besides, what about my solemn promise to my husband to try America for a year?"
Grover got up and boldly poured himself another drink. He felt that if he remained on the sofa he would say something impolite about an exacter of promises who had not been notable for the keeping of his own. Under his breath he was saying, "Que le diable l'extermine!"
Over the cabinet that contained the precious whiskey,—why had he waited so long to learn its benign anaesthetic properties!—there hung a portrait of Sophie that had been painted in Paris ten or fifteen years ago, judging from the sleeves. Grover stood before it, glass in hand. He had always admired it reluctantly, for while it was clever, it was clever at Sophie's expense. The painter had let his own personality obtrude, and his personality was out of tune with Sophie's.
"The man who painted that," said Grover, "was a boor. For instead of paying homage to your nice little turn-up nose and summery dress, he fairly taunts you with them. Painting a study of honnêteté, he was badly handicapped by a preference for everything in life that is malhonnête. He was odiously clever; but if he had been one degree more clever, he wouldn't have!" Does Scotch, Grover was wondering, make one clearheaded or merely glib?
On turning to compare Sophie with her portrait, he saw in her face something dark, faintly bitter, and
