"It's working out," he said, and stretched out his hand for the jug that wasn't there. Then he cleared his throat and told his wife about his adventure of the evening. Charlotte listened in a forbidding silence, and when he had finished:
"I don't know what all this gallivanting about in restaurants has to do with me," she said sharply, "a few shillings a week—it'll hardly pay your fare."
"One moment, dear? You say that uncle comes to us on Monday—you know what his visits are, only business trips, and at the most he'll stay two nights. And, Charlotte, Mr. Kyser goes to Switzerland to-morrow for a month—see?"
"See what?"
"My dear Charlotte, I've always thought that women as a class are inferior to us men, but for sheer unadulterated stupidity and criminal density commend me to Charlotte Povey."
"Edward—you dare to——"
"Dare, my dear, I dare anything. Fifteen years of being compared to Brown, Jones and Robinson and Hardy is enough, madam. The men you have thrown in my face are worms, Charlotte, worms. I dare anything," he repeated, and walked round the table and recovered the jug.
"Now listen, Charlotte," he went on more quietly, when he had reseated himself. "I said that uncle is coming to us on Monday, and that Kyser goes to Switzerland or Sweden, or somewhere to-morrow."
Mrs. Povey was leaning back in her chair, her eyes closed to denote that to her at least the proceedings had lost all interest. Something, however, in the tone of her husband's voice brought her sharply to herself.
"Bushey is a fine place, nice and high, and healthy, Charlotte, and will suit uncle down to the ground. He'll find us living there in style—it'll impress him—and——"