his newly-regained balance was rudely shaken by the news of his son-in-law’s marriage.
The free expression of his anger was baffled by the fact that, even by the farthest stretch of self-extenuating logic, he could find no one to blame for the event but himself.
“Why on earth don’t you say so—don’t you call me a triple-dyed fool for bringing them together?” he challenged Mrs. Ansell, as they had the matter out together in the small intimate drawing-room of her New York apartment.
Mrs. Ansell, stirring her tea with a pensive hand, met the challenge composedly.
“At present you’re doing it for me,” she reminded him; “and after all, I’m not so disposed to agree with you.”
“Not agree with me? But you told me not to engage Miss Brent! Didn’t you tell me not to engage her?”
She made a hesitating motion of assent.
“But, good Lord, how was I to help myself? No man was ever in such a quandary!” he broke off, leaping back to the other side of the argument.
“No,” she said, looking up at him suddenly. “I believe that, for the only time in your life, you were sorry then that you hadn’t married me.”
She held his eyes for a moment with a look of gentle malice; then he laughed, and drew forth his cigarette-case.
[ 467 ]
