George answered her surprise. “Miss Humfray will have these rooms again, Mrs. Pinking, if you will be so kind; and I—” He checked. “Could you let us have some tea, Mrs. Pinking? Afterwards I'll have a talk with you. We've got into a—We're very tired. If you could just let us have some tea, then I'll explain.”
In silence they ate and drank. George was half turned from the table, gloomily gazing from the window. Tiny sniffs came from his Mary; he had no words for her; looked away.
But presently there was a most dreadful choking sound. He sprang around. Most painfully his Mary was spluttering over a cup of tea. With trembling hands she put down the cup; her face was red, convulsively working.
George half rose to her. “Don't cry, darling Mary-kins. Don't cry.”
She set down the cup; swallowed; gasped, “I'm not crying—I'm la-laughing,” and into a pipe of gayest mirth she went.
Gloom gathered its sackcloth skirts; scuttled from the room.
George roared with laughter; rocked and roared again. When he could get a catch upon his mirth there was the clear pipe of his Mary's glee, clear, compelling, setting him off again. When she would gasp for breath there was her dear George, head in those brown hands, shaking with tremendous laughter—and she must start again.
She gasped: “George! If you could have seen yourself standing there telling those awful stories—!”
He gasped: “When I mistook the cats—!”
She gasped: “Mr. Marrapit's face—!”