Oh, and here's Cuthbert--I forgot." In the doorway stood the erect
form, and smiled the bronzed face of Captain Sinclair of the Greys. His
"How d'ye do, Miss Sanchia!" was accompanied by a look of such curious
enquiry that Sanchia gave him two fingers, said, "Quite well, thank you,"
and no more. Much more had been expected, and the Captain was somewhat
taken aback. He had been ready to welcome the prodigal and admire her too.
What's more, he had already very much admired her. To have one's generous
motions damped by a coolness of that sort is sickening. But there it was:
what could one say? what could one do? He went to the window and stood
there, whistling in a whisper until his wife dismissed him. To the Cavalry
Club stalked he, working himself into virtuous heat. There, at luncheon
with a friend, he expatiated, which was unwise and unmannerly at once. But
his own wrongs swallowed up his wife's rights.
"I'll be damned, Jack," he took up his parable, "I'll be damned if ever I
do a woman a good turn any more. Never, never again. Gel I know--relative
of mine she is, by marriage--goes a purler with a chap. Knew something of
the chap too--so did you, I expect. Not a bad chap, by any means, barring
this sort of thing.
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