In the meantime Burke was not so angry as he was affecting to be.  Like most leaders of men, he had a strong dramatic instinct, and he had just led Mrs. Wayne to the climax of her just violence when his manner suddenly completely changed, and he said with the utmost good temper: 

“And what do you think of my get-up, Mrs. Wayne?  It’s a new suit I have on, and a boutonniere.”  The change was so sudden that no one answered, and he went on, “It’s clothes almost fit for a wedding that I’m wearing.”

Mrs. Wayne understood him in a flash.  She sprang to her feet.

“Marty Burke,” she cried, “you don’t mean to say you’ve got those two children married!”

“Not fifteen minutes ago, and I standing up with the groom.”  He smiled a smile of the wildest, most piercing sweetness—­a smile so free and intense that it seemed impossible to connect it with anything but the consciousness of a pure heart.  Mrs. Farron had never seen such a smile.  “I thought I’d just drop around and give you the news,” he said, and now for the first time took off his hat, displaying his crisp, black hair and round, pugnacious head.  “Good morning, ladies.”  He bowed, and for an instant his glance rested on Mrs. Farron with an admiration too frank to be exactly offensive.  He put his hat on his head, turned away, and made his exit, whistling.

He left behind him one person at least who had thoroughly enjoyed his triumph.  To do her justice, however, Mrs. Farron was ashamed of her sympathy, and she said gently to Mrs. Wayne: 

“You think this marriage a very bad thing.”

Mrs. Wayne pushed all her hair away from her temples.

“Oh, yes,” she said, “it’s a bad thing for the girl; but the worst is having Marty Burke put anything over.  The district is absolutely under his thumb.  I do wish, Mrs. Farron, you would get your husband to put the fear of God into him.”

“My husband?”

“Yes; he works for your husband.  He has charge of the loading and unloading of the trucks.  He’s proud of his job, and it gives him power over the laborers.  He wouldn’t want to lose his place.  If your husband would send for him and say—­” Mrs. Wayne hastily outlined the things Mr. Farron might say.

“He works for Vincent,” Adelaide repeated.  It seemed to her an absolutely stupendous coincidence, and her imagination pictured the clash between them—­the effort of Vincent to put the fear of God into this man.  Would he be able to?  Which one would win?  Never before had she doubted the superior power of her husband; now she did.  “I think it would be hard to put the fear of God into that young man,” she said aloud.

“I do wish Mr. Farron would try.”

“Try,” thought Adelaide, “and fail?” Could she stand that?  Was her whole relation to Vincent about to be put to the test?  What weapons had he against Marty Burke?  And if he had none, how stripped he would appear in her eyes!