“I don’t know.”
“Well, but—damn it all!—somebody knows.” Sir Harry reached for the bottle and refilled his glass.
“The one thing I know is that Honoria—Mrs. George, I mean—has heard about it, and suspects me.”
Sir Harry lifted his glass and glanced at him over the rim. “That’s the devil. Does she, now?” He sipped. “She hasn’t been herself for a day or two—this explains it. I thought it was change of air she wanted. She’s in the deuce of a rage, you bet.”
“She is,” said Taffy grimly.
“There’s no prude like your young married woman. But it’ll blow over, my boy. My advice to you is to keep out of the way for a while.”
“But—but it’s a lie!” broke in the indignant Taffy. “As far as I am concerned there’s not a grain of truth in it!”
“Oh—I beg your pardon, I’m sure.” Here Honoria’s terrier (the one which George had bought for her at Plymouth) interrupted by begging for a biscuit, and Sir Harry balanced one carefully on its nose. “On trust—good dog! What does the girl say herself?”
“I don’t know. I’ve not seen her.”
“Then, my dear fellow—it’s awkward, I admit—but I’m dashed if I see what you expect me to do.” The baronet pulled out a handkerchief and began flicking the crumbs off his knees.