Helena, embarrassed if amused, sat on the far side. Hubert leaned out of the window and bought all the evening papers. He knew that there had been reporters.
"May as well see what they put," he said, almost as though in apology. She could not understand his tones, but Mother had told her last night that men were funny things with curious ideas.
He took up one after another and flipped through them all.
"Solemnised—Langham Place—écru lace," he read from the first; and then more hurriedly, "Reception—residence—numerous and costly—happy couple—Riviera."
Judging from his extracts, Helena thought, they were all very much alike. She wondered if one man had written the whole lot, and if so, what all the rest of the reporters did.
Her husband's face grew blacker as he reached the last. He threw it down with a contemptuous laugh.
"Why, what is it?" she asked. "Don't you like them?" She still felt oddly shy about using his name. "Are you disappointed?"
"One doesn't expect much from journalists," he said. "One's never disappointed."
But he was.
One account said that he was "a" novelist, but that was all: no adjective before it, not even "well-known." The others didn't mention that he was an author.