"French seamstresses!" he exclaimed. "What on earth next will you be wanting to do? Aren't the children enough of a responsibility?"
"They're no responsibility at all," Mary argued. "You won't allow them to be. Don't you remember what a fuss you made when you discovered I was taking out Geoffrey and Muriel every afternoon?"
"I didn't make a fuss. I never do make a fuss. I don't suppose that a less fussy man than myself exists. I merely observed that for you to wear yourself out looking after children while a mob of nurses and nurse-maids were eating off their heads doing nothing at home was ridiculous. Surely there's a happy medium between dragging a perambulator round Kensington Gardens and founding clubs for French seamstresses?"
Mary sat silent for a while pondering her tactics, while Jemmie, with what she felt was unnecessary gusto, ate a large slice of turbot.
"I don't think there's any need to sulk ..." he began: but at the moment one of the parlormaids came within range of the conversation, and, as Mary thought cynically, her husband had not yet reached such a pitch of married boredom as would let him be rude to her in front of the servants.
When they were left alone with the dessert, Mary returned to the attack.
"You see, lately, Jemmie, you've left me so much alone in the evening that I suppose it's natural for me to sit here and make plans for myself."
The husband glanced up sharply: never until now had his wife thrown out a hint that she had noticed his increasingly frequent withdrawals from the fire-side. Could she be jealous? Had any rumor of that phaeton he bought last week reached Mary? Gossip sprung up no one knew how. It might be that one of her friends, one of those confounded women that seemed to spend their lives visiting other women, had warned her to keep an eye on her husband. It would be awkward if Mary seriously intended to press him on the subject of dining out, and, more than dining out, of staying away from home for a couple of nights often enough. Mary herself would never suspect him of infidelity. Infidelity? Bosh! There was nothing serious to it. Maudie did not expect him to face a scandal on her account. He should be middle-aged almost immediately. This was his last love-affair; and dash it, the little girl was fond of him. Who could say why? Women were strange creatures. But it certainly was not for his money. Poor little Maudie! The walnut he was cracking suddenly burst in fragments upon his plate. He looked up guiltily.
"What were you saying, dear? I beg your pardon for not answering. I couldn't crack this nut."