Then Crispin kissed his wife, smiled into her eyes and fell again to brushing the terrier, who was patiently lying on his back with his legs in the air.
“Where is, er, Paris, at the moment?” he demanded lazily.
“I haven’t the faintest idea. Probably at the Club.”
“And Œnone?”
“Probably at home. Why?”
“I was thinking they’d better not meet till David’s got his orders. Of course, the marriage must go through. They’re perfectly matched and they’ll be ridiculously happy. If there were anything doing—I mean, if you were on, it’ld be a different thing. Nell wouldn’t stand an earthly—no woman would.” Mrs. Willoughby squeezed his arm. “But as you’re not, old lady—well, unrequited love doesn’t wear as well as it did when ‘burning Sappho loved and sung.’ Personally, I’m not at all sure that it was ever very durable. But that’s beside the point, which is that our job is to knock it out quick.”
“I agree,” said Madge, abstracting her husband’s case and taking a cigarette. “But how on earth can we do it?”
“Ask him to dinner to-night. I’ll go out. Somewhere about the fish tell him tenderly that you wouldn’t be seen dead with him. That’ll put him off and, what’s far more important, wound his pride. Add, for instance, that you don’t like the way he eats.” Madge began to shake with laughter. “And say, ‘to be perfectly frank,’ that you’ve always been much surprised that Nell didn’t seem to mind.”
“I can’t, Crip. Besides——”
“You must. It’s the only way. Then, having got so far, say, ‘as a matter of fact,’ you’re not at all sure that she hasn’t noticed something. That’ll make him sit up. It’ll also make him ask questions. You’ll beat about the bush till you get to the sweet. Then say you’ll tell him when the servants are gone.”