Think of it! A man and woman dining tête-à-tête, for months and months; the woman hypped, weary; the novelty of her new clothes gradually wearing off; she feeling she was getting lean and plain with it all, salt-cellary about the shoulders, drawn and hideous—[staring before her, her eyes dilating]—and, every blessed night, the man in a magnificent evening kilt!
Fraser.
Surely that, too, was “great fun” for a time?
Theophila.
It might have been, if you had the smallest sense of humour, Alec; but one soon tires of laughing alone. No, there was never any fun in that kilt. It got on my nerves from the beginning—the solemn, stupid stateliness of it. Girls are subject to creeps and crawls; I grew at last to positively dread joining you in the hall of an evening, to be frightened at giving you my arm to go into dinner—the simple sound of the rustling of my skirt against that petticoat of yours made the chairs, everything, dance. At those moments old Duncan and his boy Hamish seemed to be blowing into the blood-vessels of my head. And during dinner even the table wouldn’t help me; I was weak, hysterical—I declare to goodness I could always see through the thickness of the board—see the two knees! [With a backward shake of the head] Ha!
Fraser.
Well, Duncan and Hamish—poor fellows—and their pipes, and the objectionable kilt—those things need never trouble you again; at any rate, we can decide that.
Theophila.
Oh, no, Alec, we will go up to Locheen in August——
Fraser.