"She says it can't be managed," said Lawrence, standing aside for Laura to pass in. "Pitch into her, Bernard. Hear her talk like a woman of sixty! Are you frightened of the night air, Laura? Or would Chilmark chatter?"
"It might, if you and I went alone," Laura smiled.
"Make up a party then," suggested Lawrence. "Get the Bendishes to come too."
She shook her head. "They're dining with the Dean."
"And decanal dinner-parties can't be thrown over." When he made the suggestion, Lawrence had known that the Bendishes were dining with the Dean. "Some one else, then."
"Whom could I ask like this at the last moment? No, I won't go—thank you all the same. I'm not so keen on late hours and long train journeys as I used to be. Go by yourself and you can tell us all about it afterwards. Berns and I shall enjoy that as much as seeing it ourselves. Shan't we, Berns?" Clowes gave a short laugh: he could not have expressed his opinion more clearly if he had called his wife a fool to her face.
"You weren't so particular before you married me, my love. When you ran that French flat with Yvonne you jolly well knew how to amuse yourself."
"Girls do many things before they're married," said Laura vaguely. "I know better now."
"Oh, you know a lot. She ought to go, Lawrence. It'll do her good. Now you shall go, my dear, that's flat."
Lawrence began to wish he had held his tongue. He had his own ends to serve, but, to do him justice, he had not meant to serve them at Laura's expense. But he had still his trump card to play. "Surely we could find a chaperon?" he said gently, ignoring Bernard. "What about the Staffords? Hardly in Val's line, perhaps. But the child—little Miss Isabel—won't she do?"