Cynthia nodded with emphasis. “I should hope I do! They’re gray, my poor child. If you don’t believe me, ask George to-night. I shouldn’t call George a particularly observant man, but I think his powers will probably have carried him that far. Guy, I think you’d better begin rather hurriedly to talk about the weather.”
Guy began to laugh instead. He had a curious and rather fascinating laugh. He laughed with a kind of guilty air, as if he knew he were doing something he shouldn’t, but for the life of him could not help it. His laughter was subdued but hearty, and reminded one irresistibly of a small boy stealing jam.
“I meant gray,” said Mr. Guy Nesbitt, stealing jam.
Cynthia became engrossed in the intricacies of her beautifying operations and the conversation languished.
Guy was the first to break the silence. “Looking forward to this evening, darling?” he asked.
“Mps,” Cynthia murmured absently, busy with her comb. “Quite. I want to meet Dora’s fiancé. I’d like to see her married, I must say; though when it’s going to happen, goodness knows. In her last letter, she said quite cheerfully that Pat couldn’t even raise the money for their furniture yet, and apparently she saw little chance of his ever doing so. Are you?”
“Very much. If Laura is anything like Dora (and being her sister I take it she will be) we ought to have an amusing evening. This fellow Pat Doyle sounds quite an entertaining sort of chap, too. I’ve never met a journalist before, least of all an Irish journalist. The combination ought to prove remarkable.”
Cynthia turned round to look at her husband. “You are a funny old thing, you know,” she observed with a smile.
“So you frequently tell me, my dear. Why particularly in this instance?”
“Well, you’re so unexpected. I should have expected you to hate meeting strangers, but you positively revel in it.”