And she
could not understand.
On one of Austin's week-end visits, the hour for conjugal confab having
arrived and husband and wife locked in the seclusion of their
bedroom--being old-fashioned enough to occupy the same--he said, with a
trace of irritation in his voice:
"I don't know where Phil is, or what he's about. I'm wondering--he's got
the Selwyn conscience, you know--what he's up to--and if it's any kind
of dam-foolishness. Haven't you heard a word from him, Nina?"
Nina, in her pretty night attire, had emerged from her dressing-room,
locked out Kit-Ki and her maid, and had curled up in a big, soft
armchair, cradling her bare ankles in her hand.
"I haven't heard from him," she said. "Rosamund saw him in
Washington--passed him on the street. He was looking horridly thin and
worn, she wrote. He did not see her."
"Now what in the name of common sense is he doing in Washington!"
exclaimed Austin wrathfully. "Probably breaking his heart because nobody
cares to examine his Chaosite.
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