"Oh, I forgot. He is your husband, isn't he?" Then, after a moment's
easy contemplation of the pretty young woman and a scornful glance at
the golfer: "Lucky, but a very poor watchdog."
"He barks beautifully," resented the young wife, with a loyal grimace.
"That's why you're not afraid of him," he said quickly.
"Don't you think he'd bite?"
"They never do."
"Well, you just try him, that's all," remarked the young wife coldly,
rising and moving away, a touch of red in her cheeks.
"I will," he sang out genially, as he crossed his legs and stretched
his feet out to the fire. She looked back with a mirthless smile on
her lips.
The man at the piano struck up the insidious "La Mattchiche,"
suggestive of the Bal Tabarin and other Fourteenth of July devotions.
"Don't play that, Barkley," complained the big man, as every one began
beating time to the fascinating air. "I'm trying to forget Paris."
"Can you ever forget that night in Maxim's---" began Mrs. Scudaway.
"I recall the next day more vividly," he interrupted.
"Changing the subject," inserted the amiable bore, his moon-face
beaming, "I see that the Thursdales have opened their place across the
ravine.
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