They had a gay dinner. Kangaroo wasn’t really witty. But he had such an innocent charm, an extraordinary winsomeness, that it was much more delicious than wit. His presence was so warm. You felt you were cuddled cosily, like a child, on his breast, in the soft glow of his heart, and that your feet were nestling on his ample, beautiful “tummy.”
“I wonder you were never married,” said Harriet to him.
“I’ve been married several times,” he replied.
“Really!” she cried.
“First to Benny Cooley—then to immortal verse—after that to the law—once to a haughty lady—and now I’m wedded to my ideals. This time it is final. I don’t take another wife.”
“I don’t care about the rest. But were you ever married, really?”
“To a woman? A mere woman? Why, yes indeed. A young Baroness too. And after seven months she told me she couldn’t stand me for another minute, and went off with Von Rumpeldorf.”
“Is it true?”
“Quite true.”
“And is there still a Mrs Kangaroo?”