'Constance,' Fielding repeated, weighing it deliberately. 'Constance—no,
I rather like it.'
'Clarice shortens it to Connie.'
'Does she indeed? Connie—Constance.' Fielding contrasted the two names, and again, 'Constance—Connie.'
Mrs. Willoughby's mouth began to dimple at the corners.
'Although one laughs,' she proceeded, 'it's really rather serious about
Mr. Mallinson. He told me once the colour of my eyes was—'
'Do you let him talk to you about the colour of your eyes?' Fielding was really indignant at the supposition.
'He didn't ask my permission,' Mrs. Willoughby said penitently. 'But it isn't a thing people ought to do. He said they were gray, and they aren't, are they?' She turned her face towards him.
'Gray? Of course not,' said Fielding, and starting from his chair, he approached Mrs. Willoughby at the window to make sure.
'Clarice's are, I know, but I am certain mine aren't.' She held up her face towards the light, and the remark was pitched as a question.
'Yours,' said Fielding, examining them, 'Neptune dipped them in the sea at six o'clock on an August morning.'