Farron looked down the table at his wife. Why, he wondered, did she want to tease him to-night, of all nights in his life?
When they came out of the dining-room Pete said to Mathilde with the utmost clearness:
“And what was that magazine you spoke of?”
She had spoken of no magazine, but she caught the idea, the clever, rather wicked idea. He made her work her mind almost too fast sometimes, but she enjoyed it.
“Wasn’t it this?” she asked, with a beating heart.
They sat down on the sofa and bent their heads over it with student-like absorption.
“I haven’t any idea what it is,” she whispered.
“Oh, well, I suppose there’s something or other in it.”
“I think your mother is perfectly wonderful—wonderful.”
“I love you so.”