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|The Touchstone||Edith Wharton|
|Page 2 of 5||
"I didn't suppose you went uninvited. But there are certain things a sensible woman doesn't do. She doesn't slink about in out-of-the-way streets with men. Why couldn't you have seen him here?"
She hesitated. "Because he wanted to see me alone."
"Did he, indeed? And may I ask if you gratify all his wishes with equal alacrity?"
"I don't know that he has any others where I am concerned." She paused again and then continued, in a lower voice that somehow had an under-note of warning. "He wished to bid me good-by. He's going away."
Glennard turned on her a startled glance. "Going away?"
"He's going to Europe to-morrow. He goes for a long time. I supposed you knew."
The last phrase revived his irritation. "You forget that I depend on you for my information about Flamel. He's your friend and not mine. In fact, I've sometimes wondered at your going out of your way to be so civil to him when you must see plainly enough that I don't like him."
Her answer to this was not immediate. She seemed to be choosing her words with care, not so much for her own sake as for his, and his exasperation was increased by the suspicion that she was trying to spare him.
"He was your friend before he was mine. I never knew him till I was married. It was you who brought him to the house and who seemed to wish me to like him."
Glennard gave a short laugh. The defence was feebler than he had expected: she was certainly not a clever woman.
"Your deference to my wishes is really beautiful; but it's not the first time in history that a man has made a mistake in introducing his friends to his wife. You must, at any rate, have seen since then that my enthusiasm had cooled; but so, perhaps, has your eagerness to oblige me."
She met this with a silence that seemed to rob the taunt of half its efficacy.
"Is that what you imply?" he pressed her.
"No," she answered with sudden directness. "I noticed some time ago that you seemed to dislike him, but since then--"
"I've imagined that you had reasons for still wishing me to be civil to him, as you call it."
"Ah," said Glennard, with an effort at lightness; but his irony dropped, for something in her voice made him feel that he and she stood at last in that naked desert of apprehension where meaning skulks vainly behind speech.
"And why did you imagine this?" The blood mounted to his forehead. "Because he told you that I was under obligations to him?"
She turned pale. "Under obligations?"
"Oh, don't let's beat about the bush. Didn't he tell you it was I who published Mrs. Aubyn's letters? Answer me that."
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