‚ÄúMy wife!‚Äù he gasped. Then he bethought himself. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs a mistake,‚Äù he supplemented; ‚Äú Mrs. ¬ÝCresswell gave them no authority to sign her name.‚Äù
“She’s been very active,” Smith persisted, “and naturally we were all anxious.”
Cresswell bit his lip. “I shall speak to her; she does not realize what use they are making of her passing interest.”
He hurried away, and Senator Smith felt a bit sorry for Mrs. ¬ÝCresswell when he recalled the expression on her husband‚Äôs face.
Mary Cresswell did not get home until nearly dinner time; then she came in glowing with enthusiasm. Her work had received special commendation that afternoon, and she had been asked to take the chairmanship of the committee on publicity. Finding that her husband was at home, she determined to tell him‚ÅÝ‚Äîit was so good to be doing something worth while. Perhaps, too, he might be made to show some interest. She thought of Mr. ¬Ýand Mrs. ¬ÝTodd and the old dream glowed faintly again.
Cresswell looked at her as she entered the library where he was waiting and smoking. She was rumpled and muddy, with flying hair and thick walking shoes and the air of bustle and vigor which had crept into her blood this last month. Truly, her cheeks were glowing and her eyes bright, but he disapproved.
Softness and daintiness, silk and lace and glimmering flesh, belonged to women in his mind, and he despised Amazons and “business” women. He received her kiss coldly, and Mary’s heart sank. She essayed some gay greeting, but he interrupted her.
“What’s this stuff about the Civic Club?” he began sharply.
“Stuff?” she queried, blankly.