"May I inquire," she went on placidly, and a dimple snuggled at a corner of her mouth, "if that particular grunt means that you are or are not?"
Mr. van Safford lowered his newspaper and glanced at his wife's pretty face. She smiled charmingly.
"Really, I beg your pardon," he apologized, "I hardly think I will go out. I feel rather listless, and I must write some letters. Why?"
"Oh, nothing particularly," she responded.
She took a last sip of her coffee, brushed two or three tiny crumbs from her lap, laid her napkin aside, and arose. Once she turned and glanced back; Mr. van Safford was reading again.
After a while he finished the papers and stood looking out a window, yawning prodigiously at the prospect of letters to be written. His wife entered and picked up a handkerchief which had fallen beside her chair. He merely glanced around. She was dressed for the street-immaculately, stunningly gowned as only a young and beautiful and wealthy woman can gown herself.
"Where are you going, my dear?" he inquired, languidly.
"Out," she responded archly.
She passed through the door. He heard her step and the rustle of her skirts in the hall, then he heard the front door open and close. For some reason, not quite clear even to himself, it surprised him; she had never done a thing like that before. He walked to the front window and looked out. His wife went straight down the street, and turned the first corner. After a time he wandered away to the library to nurse an emotion he had never felt before. It was curiosity.
Mrs. van Safford did not return home for luncheon, so he sat down alone. Afterwards he mouched about the house restlessly for an hour or so, then he went down town. He appeared at home again just in time to dress for dinner.
"Has Mrs. van Safford returned?" was his first question of Baxter, who opened the door.
"Yes, sir, half an hour ago," responded Baxter. "She's dressing."
Mr. van Safford ran up the steps to his own apartments. At dinner his wife was radiant, rosily radiant. The flush of perfect health was in her checks and her eyes sparkled beneath their long lashes. She smiled brilliantly upon her husband. To him it was all as if some great thing had been taken out of his life, leaving it desolate, then as suddenly returned. Unnamed emotions struggled within him prompted by that curiosity of the morning, and a dozen questions hammered insistently for answers, But he repressed them gallantly, and for this he was duly rewarded.
"I had such a delightful time to-day!" his wife exclaimed, after the soup. "I called for Mrs. Blacklock immediately after I left here, and we were together all day shopping. We had luncheon down town."
Oh! That was it! Mr. van Safford laughed outright from a vague sense of relief which he could not have called by name, and toasted his wife silently by lifting his glass. Her eyes sparkled at the compliment. He drained the glass, snapped the slender stem in his fingers, laughed again and laid it aside. Mrs. van Safford dimpled with sheer delight.
"Oh, Van, you silly boy!" she reproved softly, and she stroked the hand which was prosaically reaching for the salt.
It was only a little while after dinner that Mr. van Safford excused himself and started for the club, as usual. His wife followed him demurely to the door and there, under the goggling eyes of Baxter, he caught her in his arms and kissed her impetuously, fiercely even. It was the sudden outbreak of an impulsive nature-the sort of thing that makes a woman know she is loved. She thrilled at his touch and reached two white hands forward pleadingly. Then the door closed, and she stood staring down at the tip of her tiny boot with lowered lids and a little, melancholy droop at the corners of her mouth.
It was after ten o'clock when Mr. van Safford awoke on the following morning. He had been at his club late-until after two-and now drowsily permitted himself to be overcome again by the languid listlessness which is the heritage of late hours. At ten minutes past eleven he appeared in the breakfast room.
"Mrs. van Safford has been down I suppose?" he inquired of a maid.
"Oh yes, sir," she replied. "She's gone out."
Mr. van Safford lifted his brows inquiringly.
"She was down a few minutes after eight o'clock, sir," the maid explained, "and hurried through her breakfast."
"Did she leave any word?"
"No, sir."
"Be back to luncheon?"
"She didn't say, sir."
Mr. van Safford finished his breakfast silently and thoughtfully. About noon he, too, went out. One of the first persons he met down town was Mrs. Blacklock, and she rushed toward him with outstretched hand.
"I'm so glad to see you," she bubbled, for Mrs. Blacklock was of that rare type which can bubble becomingly. "But where, in the name of goodness, is your wife? I haven't seen her for weeks and weeks?"
"Haven't seen her for--" Mr. van Safford repeated, slowly.
"No," Mrs. Blacklock assured him. "I can't imagine where she is keeping herself."
Mr. van Safford gazed at her in dumb bewilderment for a moment, and the lines about his mouth hardened a little despite his efforts to control himself.
"I had an impression," he said deliberately, "that you saw her yesterday-that you went shopping together?"
"Goodness, no. It must be three weeks since I saw her."
Mr. van Safford's fingers closed slowly, fiercely, but his face relaxed a little, masking with a slight smile, a turbulent rush of mingled emotions.
"She mentioned your name," he said at last, calmly. "Perhaps she said she was going to call on you. I misunderstood her."
He didn't remember the remainder of the conversation, but it was of no consequence at the moment. He had not misunderstood her, and he knew he had not. At last he found himself at his club, and there idle guesses and conjectures flowed through his brain in an unending stream. Finally he arose, grimly.
"I suppose I'm an ass," he mused. "It doesn't amount to anything, of course, but--"
And he sought to rid himself of distracting thoughts over a game of billiards; instead he only subjected himself to open derision for glaringly inaccurate play. Finally he flung down the cue in disgust, strode away to the 'phone and called up his home.
"Is Mrs. van Safford there?" he inquired of Baxter.
"No, sir. She hasn't returned yet."
Mr. van Safford banged the telephone viciously as he hung up the receiver. At six o'clock he returned home. His wife was still out. At half past eight he sat down to dinner, alone. He didn't enjoy it; indeed hardly tasted it. Then, just as he finished, she came in with a rush of skirts and a lilt of laughter. He drew a long breath, and set his teeth.
"You poor, deserted dear!" she sympathized, laughingly.
He started to say something, but two soft, clinging arms were about his neck, and a velvety cheek rested against his own, so-so he kissed her instead. And really he wasn't at all to be blamed. She sighed happily, and laid aside her hat and gloves.
"I simply couldn't get here any sooner," she explained poutingly as she glanced into his accusing eyes. "I was out with Nell Blakesley in her big, new touring car, and it broke down and we had to send for a man to repair it, so--"
He didn't hear the rest; he was staring into her eyes, steadily, inquiringly. Truth shone triumphant there; he could only believe her. Yet-yet-that other thing! She hadn't told him the truth! In her face, at last, he read uneasiness as he continued to stare, and for a moment there was silence.
"What's the matter, Van?" she inquired solicitously. "Don't you feel well?"
He pulled himself together with a start and for a time they chatted of inconsequential things as she ate. He watched her until she pushed her dessert plate aside, then casually, quite casually:
"I believe you said you were going to call on Mrs. Blacklock to-morrow?"
She looked up quickly.
"Oh no," she replied. "I was with her all day yesterday, shopping. I said I had called on her."