Edith laughed.
'It's all very well to laugh, but it's a very sad thing. The poor chap is going off his head. I don't know what to do about it.'
'He isn't really, Bruce. I know what it is. I can explain the whole thing. Last time I saw him—he called the day you were rehearsing—he said he had given up being a Legitimist, and was going to try, if possible, to develop a sense of humour. He thinks for one thing it will please me. I'm sure he hopes you will tell me the story about the crumpet, and that I shall admire him for it.'
'Do you seriously mean that he's trying to be funny on your account?'
'That's the idea.'
'But what have you to do with his career? What is it to you? I mean, what is it to him—whether you like people to be funny or serious?'
'Nothing, really.'
'You admit openly, Edith, that you know he has such a liking for you that he is becoming a clown in the hope that you will think him witty?'
'That is it. He's afraid he's a bore—too dull. He wants to amuse me.
That's all.'
'What right has he to wish anything of the kind? Have you not got me, if you wish to be amused? If I thought that you were right—but, mind you, I don't; all women have their little vanities, and I believe it's a delusion of yours about Raggett—I think he's simply been getting a little queer in the head lately. However, if I did think it, I should consider it an outrage. To write me a letter on a crumpet, as a joke! Joke, indeed! Men have been called out for less, Edith.'