“Yes,” said Mrs. Barker, “and I hope your friend Stacy remembered that but for ME, when you found out that you were not rich, you'd have given up the claim, but that I really deceived my own father to make you keep it. I've often worried over that, George,” she said pensively, turning a diamond bracelet around her pretty wrist, “although I never said anything about it.”
“But, Kitty darling,” said Barker, grasping his wife's hand, “I gave my note for it; you know you said that was bargain enough, and I had better wait until the note was due, and until I found I couldn't pay, before I gave up the claim. It was very clever of you, and the boys all said so, too. But you never deceived your father, dear,” he said, looking at her gravely, “for I should have told him everything.”
“Of course, if you look at it in that way,” said his wife languidly, “it's nothing; only I think it ought to be remembered when people go about saying papa ruined you with his hotel schemes.”
“Who dares say that?” said Barker indignantly.
“Well, if they don't SAY it they look it,” said Mrs. Barker, with a toss of her pretty head, “and I believe that's at the bottom of Stacy's refusal.”
“But he never said a word, Kitty,” said Barker, flushing.
“There, don't excite yourself, George,” said Mrs. Barker resignedly, “but go for the baby. I know you're dying to go, and I suppose it's time Norah brought it upstairs.”
At any other time Barker would have lingered with explanations, but just then a deeper sense than usual of some misunderstanding made him anxious to shorten this domestic colloquy. He rose, pressed his wife's hand, and went out. But yet he was not entirely satisfied with himself for leaving her. “I suppose it isn't right my going off as soon as I come in,” he murmured reproachfully to himself, “but I think she wants the baby back as much as I; only, womanlike, she didn't care to let me know it.”
He reached the lower hall, which he knew was a favorite promenade for the nurses who were gathered at the farther end, where a large window looked upon Montgomery Street. But Norah, the Irish nurse, was not among them; he passed through several corridors in his search, but in vain. At last, worried and a little anxious, he turned to regain his rooms through the long saloon where he had found his wife previously. It was deserted now; the last caller had left--even frivolity had its prescribed limits. He was consequently startled by a gentle murmur from one of the heavily curtained window recesses. It was a woman's voice--low, sweet, caressing, and filled with an almost pathetic tenderness. And it was followed by a distinct gurgling satisfied crow.