“I don’t think,” said Mr. Doyle, “that we’ll take George in with us. And we can’t very well tie him up outside. Do you mind if we leave him here?”
“Not at all. He can talk to my wife. I think she rather needs somebody to talk to.”
“George, you hear? You’re to stay here and talk to Mrs. Nesbitt. She needs somebody to talk to, but you’re the only one available. Good-bye.”
They went.
George watched them go. Then he went indoors obediently to talk to Cynthia. People were always doing that sort of thing to George.
Cynthia was very ready for George to talk to her. She came downstairs, fresh from helping the good woman who had come in for the day to oblige in the absence according to orders of the maids, and engaged George in conversation at once. Twenty minutes later George had said, “Yes,” fourteen times, “No,” eleven, “Oh, come,” seven, and “Really, I don’t think it’s as bad as that, Cynthia,” on an ascending scale, four. Otherwise George had contributed nothing of value to the conversation.
“But what’s going to happen?” Cynthia demanded, not for the first time. “What’s going to be the end of it?”
“I don’t know,” said George, breaking fresh ground.
“How are they going to get out of it, when the time comes?” Cynthia pursued.
George consulted his pipe. It gave him no help. “I expect they’ll think of something,” he said feebly. “Trust old Guy, eh?”