Taine spoke to the chauffeur; "You may stop a moment, at the next
house, Henry."
If she had fired a gun, James Rutlidge could not have turned with a more
startled suddenness.
"What in thunder do you want there?" he demanded shortly.
"I want to stop," she returned calmly.
"But I must get down town, at once," he protested. "I have already lost
the best part of the afternoon."
"Your business seems to have become important very suddenly," she
observed, sarcastically.
"I have something to do besides making calls with you," he retorted. "Go
on, Henry."
Mrs. Taine spoke sharply; "Really, Jim, you are going too far. Henry, turn
in at the house." The machine moved toward the curb and stopped. As she
stepped from the car, she added, "I will only be a minute, Jim."
Rutlidge growled an inarticulate curse.
"What deviltry do you suppose she is up to now," rasped Mr. Taine.
Which brought from his daughter the usual protest,--"O, papa, don't,"
As Mrs. Taine approached the house, Sibyl Andres--busy among the flowers
that bordered the walk--heard the woman's step, and stood quietly waiting
her. Mrs. Taine's face was perfect in its expression of cordial interest,
with just enough--but not too much--of a conscious, well-bred superiority.
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