It had been a popular belief
among his friends that her late husband, the well-known Pittsburg
millionaire G. G. van Brunt, had been in the habit of
automatically confessing all if he merely caught the eye of her
photograph on his dressing table.
From the growing pile of opened envelopes Mrs. Crocker looked up,
a smile softening the firm line of her lips.
"A card from Lady Corstorphine, Bingley, for her at-home on the
twenty-ninth."
Mr. Crocker, still absorbed, snorted absently.
"One of the most exclusive hostesses in England. . . . She has
influence with the right sort of people. Her brother, the Duke of
Devizes, is the Premier's oldest friend."
"Uh?"
"The Duchess of Axminster has written to ask me to look after a
stall at her bazaar for the Indigent Daughters of the Clergy."
"Huh?"
"Bingley! You aren't listening. What is that you are reading?"
Mr. Crocker tore himself from the paper.
"This? Oh, I was looking at a report of that cricket game you
made me go and see yesterday."
"Oh? I am glad you have begun to take an interest in cricket. It
is simply a social necessity in England. Why you ever made such a
fuss about taking it up, I can't think. You used to be so fond of
watching baseball and cricket is just the same thing."
A close observer would have marked a deepening of the look of
pain on Mr. Crocker's face. Women say this sort of thing
carelessly, with no wish to wound: but that makes it none the
less hard to bear.
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