Crispin lifted his glass and looked at his wife.
“My sweet,” he said, “your very good health. There’s no one like you in all the blinkin’ world.” His guests cried their approval, and the tenderest look stole into Madge Willoughby’s eyes. He drank, smiled and set down his glass. Then he turned to Miss Cloke. “Nell,” he said, “you’re a darling. I’ld rather have you on my right than any woman I know. Yet, sweet as you are, you’re a fortunate child. David may be peculiar, but he’ll never let you down.”
“What d’you mean—‘peculiar’?” said Herrick.
“That,” said Eleanor, “is what I’m burning to know.”
“Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. Be careful of him when he’s in beer, and if ever he says he’s a life-belt and tries to put himself on, don’t argue, but send for the police.”
“They say,” said Eleanor, gurgling, “that marriage tends to shatter all sorts of illusions.”
Crispin laid a hand upon his heart.
“My dear,” he declared, “I’m sure that yours will but substantiate your dreams.”
“With which,” said Madge tremulously, “we grey-beards look towards you.”
Solemnly she and her husband toasted their guests.