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Just as this mood began to creep over him a disquieting story
reached his ear. His Aunt Edna, a woman just this side of forty, was
carrying on an open intrigue with a dissolute, hard-drinking young
man named Gary Sloane. Every one knew of it except Anson's Uncle
Robert, who for fifteen years had talked long in clubs and taken his
wife for granted.
Anson heard the story again and again with increasing
annoyance. Something of his old feeling for his uncle came back to
him, a feeling that was more than personal, a reversion toward that
family solidarity on which he had based his pride. His intuition
singled out the essential point of the affair, which was that his uncle
shouldn't be hurt. It was his first experiment in unsolicited meddling,
but with his knowledge of Edna's character he felt that he could
handle the matter better than a district judge or his uncle.
His uncle was in Hot Springs. Anson traced down the sources
of the scandal so that there should be no possibility of mistake and
then he called Edna and asked her to lunch with him at the Plaza next
day. Something in his tone must have frightened her, for she was
reluctant, but he insisted, putting off the date until she had no excuse
for refusing.
She met him at the appointed time in the Plaza lobby, a
lovely, faded, gray-eyed blonde in a coat of Russian sable. Five great
rings, cold with diamonds and emeralds, sparkled on her slender
hands. It occurred to Anson that it was his father's intelligence and
not his uncle's that had earned the fur and the stones, the rich
brilliance that buoyed up her passing beauty.
Though Edna scented his hostility, she was unprepared for the
directness of his approach.
"Edna, I'm astonished at the way you've been acting," he said in
a strong, frank voice. "At first I couldn't believe it."
"Believe what?" she demanded sharply.
"You needn't pretend with me, Edna. I'm talking about Gary
Sloane. Aside from any other consideration, I didn't think you could
treat Uncle Robert -"
"Now look here, Anson-" she began angrily, but his
peremptory voice broke through hers:
"- and your children in such a way. You've been married
eighteen years, and you're old enough to know better." "You can't talk
to me like that! You - "