“Well, no one objected to your money, I suppose?” interrupted Nellie.
“Pardon me. I was about to say ‘or not rich enough.’”
“But that’s the same thing.”
“The antithesis is certainly imperfect,” I admitted.
“Mr. Gay,” said Nellie, introducing the name with some timidity, “you know who I mean?—the poet—once said to me that man was essentially imperfect until he was married.”
“It is true,” I agreed. “And woman until she is dead.”
“I don’t think he meant it quite in that sense,” said Nellie, rather puzzled.
“I don’t think he meant it in any sense,” murmured Dolly, a little unkindly.
We might have gone on talking in this way for ever so long had not Archie at this point dropped a large flower pot and smashed it to bits. He stood looking at the bits for a moment, and then came towards us and sank into a chair.
“I’m off!” he announced.