"Nonsense, Phil"—Musard flushed under his brown skin—"your guests do not want to hear me talk any more about myself. I've monopolized the conversation too long already."
"Oh, please do tell us!" exclaimed several of the guests.
"Really, you know, I'd rather not," responded Musard, in some embarrassment. "It's a long story, for one thing, and it's not quite—how shall I express it—it's a bit on the horrible side to relate in the presence of ladies."
"I do not think that need deter you," remarked one of the young officers drily. "We are all pretty strong-minded nowadays—since the War."
"Oh, we should love to hear it," said the lady journalist, who scented good "copy." "Shouldn't we?" she added, turning to some of the ladies near her.
"Yes, indeed!" chorused the other ladies. "Do tell us."
"Go ahead, Musard—you see you can't get out of it," said Phil.
"Perhaps, Phil, as Mr. Musard does not think it a suitable story—" commenced Miss Heredith tentatively. Her eye was fixed anxiously on the clock, which was verging on twenty minutes past seven, and she feared the relation of her old friend's experience might make them late at the Weynes. But at that moment Tufnell approached his mistress and caught her eye. A slight shade of annoyance crossed her brow as she listened to something he communicated in a low voice, and she turned to her guests.
"I must ask you to excuse me for a few moments," she said.
She rose from her place and left the room. As the door closed behind her the ladies turned eagerly to Musard.