"Now there'll be some fun," said Geoffrey Alison.
"I consider," said Mr. G. K. Shaw quite gravely, holding his beard steady, "that the last speaker's mongrel theory of literature is plausible and valuable. I am, however, puzzled as to how he accounts for his own admirable pamphlets?"
Which certainly was fun and everybody laughed, to the annoyance of old Dr. Kenyon, who was thenceforth nicknamed "Mongrel" and shortly after moved to Wimbledon.
But beyond all this, Helena found a vague excitement in the evening. It was not like those other causeries at six o'clock; she wished they always could take place at eight. The mere fact, too, of having come so on the moment's spur lent quite a new attraction. As Geoffrey Alison had hinted, picnics are more romantic than a dinner-party and this had bulked into almost an adventure.
He saw her home. The speeches had been long and it was half-past ten already, but all was darkness in the little house.
Helena had quite a feeling of nervousness at the idea of switching on light after light, alone. "Come along in," she said simply. "Hubert'll be here in half a moment. Then he'll give you a drink, and we will all exchange experiences!" All rancour had gone; yet—well, she would rather like to show Hugh that his absence didn't mean she merely sat and cried! Women are human—and women.
"No, I don't think I will, thanks very much," he said.
His face and tone puzzled her. "Don't say you're busy, now!" she cried. "It's a regular disease."
"Oh no, I never work at night," he answered. "Artists can't very well. That is the one advantage of our job!"
"Well don't be tiresome then, and come on in," she said, holding the door open. "Hugh will be furious if he knows you're just gone. So don't be stupid. I was tame, just now!"