Rantoul pressed into action the moment
her husband's recollections exiled her from the conversation; but above
all, the indefinable enmity that seemed to well out from his hostess,
and which he seemed to divine occasionally when the ready smile left her
lips and she was forced to listen to things she did not understand.
When they rose from the table, Rantoul passed his arm about his wife and
said something in her ear, at which she smiled and patted his hand.
"I am very proud of my husband, Mr. Herkimer," she said with a little
bob of her head in which was a sense of proprietorship. "You'll see."
"Suppose we stroll out for a little smoke in the garden," said Rantoul.
"What, you're going to leave me?" she said instantly, with a shade of
vague uneasiness, that Herkimer perceived.
"We sha'n't be long, dear," said Rantoul, pinching her ear. "Our chatter
won't interest you. Send the coffee out into the rose cupola."
They passed out into the open porch, but Herkimer was aware of the
little woman standing irresolutely tapping with her thin finger on the
table, and he said to himself: "She's a little ogress of jealousy.
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