“My glass is empty, John,” he said.
“Ah, well,” he sighed, “if you please one woman you can’t please all women.”
“And you must please all women,” said Harriet, thoughtfully. “Yes, perhaps you must. Perhaps it is your mission.”
“Mission! Good God! Now I’m a fat missionary. Dear Mrs Somers, eat my dinner, but don’t swallow me in a mouthful. Eating your host for hors d’œuvres. You’re a dangerous ogre, a Medusa with her hair under her hat. Let’s talk of Peach Melba. Where have you had the very best Peach Melba you ever tasted?”
After this he became quiet, and a little constrained, and when they had withdrawn for coffee, the talk went subduedly, with a little difficulty.
“I suppose your husband will have told you, Mrs Somers, of our heaven-inspired scheme of saving Australia from the thieves, dingoes, rabbits, rats and starlings, humanly speaking.”
“No, he hasn’t told me. He’s only told me there was some political business going on.”
“He may as well put it that way as any other. And you advised him not to have anything to do with it?”
“No,” said Harriet, “I let him do as he likes.”
“Wonderful woman! Even the wind bloweth where it listeth.”