Professionally, he was used to intellectual loneliness, and no longer minded it. Outside of his profession he had a brain above the average, but a general education hardly up to it; and the discrepancy between what he would have been capable of enjoying had his mind been prepared for it, and what it could actually take in, made him modest and almost shy in what he considered cultivated society. He had long believed his wife to be cultivated because she had fits of book-buying and there was an expensively bound library in the New York house. In his raw youth, in the old Delos days, he had got together a little library of his own in which Robert Ingersoll’s lectures represented science, the sermons of the Reverend Frank Gunsaulus of Chicago, theology, John Burroughs, natural history, and Jared Sparks and Bancroft almost the whole of history. He had gradually discovered the inadequacy of these guides, but without ever having done much to replace them. Now and then, when he was not too tired, and had the rare chance of a quiet evening, he picked up a book from Pauline’s table; but the works she acquired were so heterogeneous, and of such unequal value, that he rarely found one worth reading. Mrs. Tallentyre’s “Voltaire” had been a revelation: he discovered, to his surprise, that he had never really known who Voltaire was, or what sort of a world he had lived in, and why his name had survived it. After that, Manford decided to start in on a course of European history, and got as far as taking the first volume of Macaulay up to bed. But he was tired at night, and found Macaulay’s periods too long (though their eloquence appealed to his forensic instinct): and there had never been time for that course of history.
In his early wedded days, before he knew much of his wife’s world, he had dreamed of quiet evenings at home, when Pauline would read instructive books aloud while he sat by the fire and turned over his briefs in some quiet inner chamber of his mind. But Pauline had never known any one who wanted to be read aloud to except children getting over infantile complaints. She regarded the desire almost as a symptom of illness, and decided that Dexter needed “rousing,” and that she must do more to amuse him. As soon as she was able after Nona’s birth she girt herself up for this new duty; and from that day Manford’s life, out of office hours, had been one of almost incessant social activity. At first the endless going out had bewildered, then for a while amused and flattered him, then gradually grown to be a soothing routine, a sort of mild drug-taking after the high pressure of professional hours; but of late it had become simply a bore, a duty to be persisted in because — as he had at last discovered — Pauline could not live without it. After twenty years of marriage he was only just beginning to exercise his intellectual acumen on his wife.
The thought of Pauline made him glance at his clock: she would be coming in a moment. He unhooked the receiver again, and named, impatiently, the same number as before. “Out, you say? Still?” (The same stupid voice making the same stupid answer!) “Oh, no; no matter. I say IT’S NO MATTER,” he almost shouted, replacing the receiver. Of all idiotic servants —!
Miss Vollard, the susceptible type-writer, shot a shingled head around the door, said “ALL right” with an envious sigh to some one outside, and effaced herself before the brisk entrance of her employer’s wife. Manford got to his feet.
“Well, my dear — ” He pushed an armchair near the fire, solicitous, still a little awed by her presence — the beautiful Mrs. Wyant who had deigned to marry him. Pauline, throwing back her furs, cast a quick house-keeping glance about her. The scent she used always reminded him of a superior disinfectant; and in another moment, he knew, she would find some pretext for assuring herself, by the application of a gloved finger-tip, that there was no dust on desk or mantelpiece. She had very nearly obliged him, when he moved into his new office, to have concave surbases, as in a hospital ward or a hygienic nursery. She had adopted with enthusiasm the idea of the concave tiling fitted to every cove and angle, so that there were no corners anywhere to catch the dust. People’s lives ought to be like that: with no corners in them. She wanted to demicrobe life.
But, in the case of his own office, Manford had resisted; and now, he understood, the fad had gone to the scrap-heap — with how many others!
“Not too near the fire.” Pauline pushed her armchair back and glanced up to see if the ceiling ventilators were working. “You DO renew the air at regular intervals? I’m sure everything depends on that; that and thought-direction. What the Mahatma calls mental deep-breathing.” She smiled persuasively. “You look tired, Dexter . . . tired and drawn.”
“Oh, rot! — A cigarette?”
She shook her small resolute head. “You forget that he’s cured me of that too — the Mahatma. Dexter,” she exclaimed suddenly, “I’m sure it’s this silly business of the Grant Lindons’ that’s worrying you. I want to talk to you about it — to clear it up with you. It’s out of the question that you should be mixed up in it.”
Manford had gone back to his desk-chair. Habit made him feel more at home there, in fuller possession of himself; Pauline, in the seat facing him, the light full on her, seemed no more than a client to be advised, or an opponent to be talked over. He knew she felt the difference too. So far he had managed to preserve his professional privacy and his professional authority. What he did “at the office” was clouded over, for his family, by the vague word “business,” which meant that a man didn’t want to be bothered. Pauline had never really distinguished between practising the law and manufacturing motors; nor had Manford encouraged her to. But today he suspected that she meant her interference to go to the extreme limit which her well-known “tact” would permit.
“You must not be mixed up in this investigation. Why not hand it over to somebody else? Alfred Cosby, or that new Jew who’s so clever? The Lindons would accept any one you recommended; unless, of course,” she continued, “you could persuade them to drop it, which would be so much better. I’m sure you could, Dexter; you always know what to say — and your opinion carries such weight. Besides, what is it they complain of? Some nonsense of Bee’s, I’ve no doubt — she took a rest-cure at the School. If they’d brought the girl up properly there’d have been no trouble. Look at Nona!”
“Oh — Nona!” Manford gave a laugh of pride. Nona was the one warm rich spot in his life: the corner on which the sun always shone. Fancy comparing that degenerate fool of a Bee Lindon to his Nona, and imagining that “bringing-up” made the difference! Still, he had to admit that Pauline — always admirable — had been especially so as a mother. Yet she too was bitten with this theosophical virus!
He lounged back, hands in pockets, one leg swinging, instinctively seeking an easier attitude as his moral ease diminished.
“My dear, it’s always been understood, hasn’t it, that what goes on in this office is between me and my clients, and not — ”
“Oh, nonsense, Dexter!” She seldom took that tone: he saw that she was losing her self-control. “Look here: I make it a rule never to interfere; you’ve just said so. Well — if I interfere now, it’s because I’ve a right to — because it’s a duty! The Lindons are my son’s cousins: Fanny Lindon was a Wyant. Isn’t that reason enough?”
“It was one of the Lindons’ reasons. They appealed to me on that very ground.”
Pauline gave an irritated laugh. “How like Fanny! Always pushing in and claiming things. I wonder such an argument took you in. Do consider, Dexter! I won’t for a minute admit that there CAN be anything wrong about the Mahatma; but supposing there were. . .” She drew herself up, her lips tightening. “I hope I know how to respect professional secrecy, and I don’t ask you to repeat their nasty insinuations; in fact, as you know, I always take particular pains to avoid hearing anything painful or offensive. But, supposing there were any ground for what they say; do they realize how the publicity is going to affect Bee’s reputation? And how shall you feel if you set the police at work and find them publishing the name of a girl who is Jim’s cousin, and a friend of your own daughter’s?”
Manford