There was only one fault to be found with Bob Purnett's demeanour during dinner at the Café Royal. It was quite friendly and cheerful; it was not distant; but it was rather overwhelmingly respectful. It recognized and emphasized the fact of Godfrey Ledstone's property in her (the thing can hardly be put differently), and of Bob's perfect acquiescence in it. It protested that not a trace of treason lurked in this little excursion. He even kept on expressing the wish that Godfrey were with them. And he called her 'Mrs. Ledstone' every other sentence. There never was anybody who kept the straitest rule of the code more religiously than Bob Purnett.
But he was in face of a situation of which he was ignorant, and of a nature which (as he was only too well aware) he very little comprehended. Winnie looked very pretty, but she smiled inscrutably. At least she smiled at first. Presently a touch of irritation crept into her manner. She gave him back copious 'Mr. Purnett's' in return for his 'Mrs. Ledstone's.' The conversation became formal, indeed, to Bob, rather dull. He understood her less and less.
It was, on Winnie's extremely rough and not less irritated computation, at the one hundred and fourth 'Mrs. Ledstone' of the evening—which found utterance as they were driving in a cab from the restaurant to the selected place of entertainment—that her patience gave as with a snap, and her bitter humour had its way.
"For heaven's sake don't call me 'Mrs. Ledstone' any more this evening!"
"Eh?" said Bob, removing his cigar from his mouth. "What did you say, Mrs. Led——Oh, I beg pardon!"
"I said, 'Don't call me "Mrs. Ledstone"'—or I shall go mad."
"What am I to call you, then?" He was trying not to stare at her, but was glancing keenly out of the corner of his eye.
"Let's be safe—call me Mrs. Smith," said Winnie.
On which words they arrived at the music hall.