“The only possible excuse for an engagement like that,” I observed, “is to be found in intense post-nuptial unhappiness.”
Hilary rose, and advanced towards his wife.
“Your embroidery’s falling on the floor,” said he.
“Not a bit of it,” said I.
“Yes, it is,” he persisted; and he picked it up and gave it to her. Miss Phyllis smiled delightedly. Hilary had squeezed his wife’s hand.
“Then we don’t excuse it,” said he.
I took out my watch. I was not finding much entertainment.
“Surely it’s quite early, old man?” said Hilary.
“It’s nearly eleven. We’ve spent half-an-hour on the thing,” said I peevishly, holding out my hand to my hostess.
“Oh, are you going? Good night, Mr. Carter.”