She was going to address some aggravating remark
to him--he could see it in her eye--which would irritate him into
savage retort.
Even this prize idiot of a stranger would understand why
boarding-house wits had dubbed them "Darby and Joan," would grasp the
fact that the gallant Colonel had thought it amusing, in conversation
with a table acquaintance, to hold his own wife up to ridicule.
"My dear," cried the Colonel, hurrying to speak first, "does not this
room strike you as cold? Let me fetch you a shawl."
It was useless: the Colonel felt it. It had been too long the custom
of both of them to preface with politeness their deadliest insults to
each other. She came on, thinking of a suitable reply: suitable from
her point of view, that is. In another moment the truth would be out.
A wild, fantastic possibility flashed through the Colonel's brain: If
to him, why not to her?
"Letitia," cried the Colonel, and the tone of his voice surprised her
into silence, "I want you to look closely at our friend. Does he not
remind you of someone?"
Mrs. Devine, so urged, looked at the stranger long and hard. "Yes,"
she murmured, turning to her husband, "he does, who is it?"
"I cannot fix it," replied the Colonel; "I thought that maybe you
would remember."
"It will come to me," mused Mrs.
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