“Oh, but I do!” cried she.

“We’ll see—­in a few weeks or months,” replied he.

The Burroughs party were rising.  Josephine had choice of two ways to the door.  She chose the one that took her past Norman and his bride.  She advanced, beaming.  Norman rose, took her extended hand.  Said she: 

“So glad to see you.”  Then, turning the radiant smile upon Dorothy, “And is this your wife?  Is this the pretty little typewriter girl?”

Dorothy nodded—­a charming, ingenuous bend of the head.  Norman felt a thrill of pride in her, so beautifully unconscious of the treacherous attempt at insult.  It particularly delighted him that she had not made the mistake of rising to return Josephine’s greeting but had remained seated.  Surely this wife of his had the right instincts that never fail to cause right manners.  For Josephine’s benefit, he gazed down at Dorothy with the proudest, fondest eyes.  “Yes—­this is she,” said he.  “Can you blame me?”

Josephine paled and winced visibly, as if the blow she had aimed at him had, after glancing off harmlessly, returned to crush her.  She touched Dorothy’s proffered hand, murmured a few stammering phrases of vague compliment, rejoined her friends.  Said Dorothy, when she and Norman were settled again: 

“I shall never like her.  Nor she me.”

“But you do like this cheese?  Waiter, another bottle of that same.”

“Why did she put you in such a good humor?” inquired his wife.

“It wasn’t she.  It was you!” replied he.  But he refused to explain.

XXI

Galloway accepted Norman’s terms.  He would probably have accepted terms far less easy.  But Norman as yet knew with the thoroughness which must precede intelligent plan and action only the legal side of financial operations; he had been as indifferent to the commercial side as a pilot to the value of the cargo in the ship he engages to steer clear of shoals and rocks.  So with the prudence of the sagacious man’s audacities he contented himself with a share of this first venture that would simply make a comfortable foundation for the fortune he purposed to build.  As the venture could not fail outright, even should Galloway die, he rented a largish place at Hempstead, with the privilege of purchase, and installed his wife and himself with a dozen servants and a housekeeper.

“This housekeeper, this Mrs. Lowell,” said he to Dorothy, “is a good enough person as housekeepers go.  But you will have to look sharply after her.”

Dorothy seemed to fade and shrink within herself, which was her way of confessing lack of courage and fitness to face a situation:  “I don’t know anything about those things,” she confessed.

“I understand perfectly,” said he.  “But you learned something at the place in Jersey City—­quite enough for the start.  Really, all you need to know just now is whether the place is clean or not, and whether the food comes on the table in proper condition.  The rest you’ll pick up gradually.”