now—and her lip was curling with a fine, hot scorn.
So she sat for a long time, disdainful—listening to her husband's voice. Not that she meant to listen or cared to listen, but as she would have listened to any sound whatsoever that was there to drone into her ears.
But presently, thus taking in the sound of that voice, she became aware that George's manner was getting nervous and his sentences jerky; that some were vague and ill-formed; that others were tactless and ill-natured; that his utterance grew more and more staccato. At length he stopped. George's voice had indicated that he was disturbed about something.
Her foolish sympathies were instantly aroused. Had there been anything in the mail to cause him worry? She felt a sudden wave of concern for him and a sense of shame and disappointment with herself.
It was at this moment that the door flew open. She turned as in flight, but too late. Her husband was beside her, his arm about her, and she was snatched violently to his breast.
"Darling! Darling!" he cried remorsefully, "I couldn't get to you quickly enough. It broke my heart to have you take Blakeley's coming the way you did. All the while I was crazy to get to you. But—but, you see, there was a principle at stake."
