“I beg,” he implored, “I beg that you will not disgrace me by supplanting this nectar by a tumbler of—of Schoolgirl’s Joy. I mean, I’ld rather order you a pint of draught stout. Stout may be coarse, but, at least, it’s got some body.”
“Grenadine,” said Sarah relentlessly. “All nice and red and sweet. I love it.”
Physically and mentally, the epicure writhed. . . . Then he gave the order.
Sarah smiled maddeningly.
“That was very sweet of you, Virgil—darling.”
“Not at all, my love”—shakily. “When we’re—er married—blast this peach!” he added savagely, plunging his hands in water. “I suppose you couldn’t do with a walnut?”
“Get down to it,” said Sarah shortly. “ ‘When we’re married,’ you were saying.”
“Was I? Oh, yes. Well, when——By the way, I’d better announce it, hadn’t I?”
“I suppose so,” said Sarah.
“Right,” said Virgil. “The usual thing, I take it. ‘A marriage has been arranged, and——’ ”