“Oh no, she’s no use. I shall engage a typewriter to go through the list with me and send out cards.”
“Right-o! good idea.”
He was quite surprised and satisfied, and thought to himself how wise it was of him the other day to ignore the absurd fit of excitement when she had smashed the vases. Certainly she had been better ever since.
“You’d like me to help you with the list, wouldn’t you, dear?” he said presently.
She gave him a sharp look.
“I suppose we’d better ask everybody we know to this sort of thing,” she said.
“Your mother and I are not on the best of terms, I’m afraid. But you must be sure to ask her, and we’ll make it up.”
Nigel thought to himself that really would be only fair, considering that he had practically and ingeniously invented the quarrel on purpose; in order that he could have an excuse to go out when Mary’s mother came to see her. But, really, Nigel liked her personally and knew that she liked him, and that she was not without sympathy for anyone who had to live with her daughter.
“I suppose you’ll want me to ask the Kellynches?” asked Mary, in a rather low voice.
“It would look natural if you did. But, really, I have seen so little of them for the last few years that you can please yourself about it.”