It seemed for a moment as if Floyd-Rosney had never heard of the simple ceremony of an introduction. Paula could not secure and hold his attention. He passed Randal over with a casual, unnoting glance, and began to take her to task in no measured terms.
“Why do you allow the child to chase back and forth in that dark tunnel under the Cherokee rose hedge? He will be scratched to pieces by the briars, the first thing you know. Why is he with that madcap tom-boy, Marjorie Ashley? Where is his nurse, anyhow?”
“Why, she is completely knocked out by the fatigue and excitements,--she is quite old, you remember,” said Paula meekly, seeking to stem his tide of words. “I was just coming out to play nurse myself. But stop a minute. I want to----”
“I won’t stop a minute,--I don’t care what you want,”--her aspect suddenly seemed to strike his attention. “And why do you trick yourself out in such duds at such a time?”
“Because this is so easy to put on,--and I had to dress the baby,” Paula was near to tears. “But I want to----” she mended the phrase,--“This is Mr. Ducie; he wishes to meet you.”
Floyd-Rosney turned his imperious gaze on Ducie with a most unperceiving effect. “Why, of course, I know it is Mr. Ducie,--have you taken leave of your senses, Paula? Mr. Ducie and I have seen enough of each other on this trip to last us the rest of our natural existence. I can’t talk to you now, Mr. Ducie,--if you have anything to say to me you can communicate it to my lawyers; I will give you their address.”
“It is not business. It is an introduction,” explained Paula, in the extremity of confusion, while Randal, placid and impassive, looked on inscrutably. “Mr. Ducie wishes to make your acquaintance.”
“Well, he has got it,--if that is any boon,” Floyd-Rosney stared at her, stupefied.
“But this is the brother,--Mr. Randal Ducie,--the one you have never met.” In Paula’s haste to elude her husband’s impatient interruption she could scarcely speak. Her mouth was full of words, but they tripped and fell over each other in her agitation with slips and grotesque mispronunciations.
“Hoh!” said Floyd-Rosney, permitting himself to be enlightened at last. “Why this thing of twin brothers is no end of a farce.” He shook hands with Randal with some show of conventionality. He, too, was mindful of the past. But so impatient was his temperament with aught that did not suit his play that he was disposed to cavil on the probabilities. “Are you sure,”--then he paused.