“Go on,” said Madge, bubbling.
“When you’re alone, extract his word to say nothing, and then tell him bluntly we’ve a sort of idea that she’s looking at somebody else. Refuse to say who it is—that shouldn’t be difficult—but say he’s a pretty strong man. Add casually that of course it isn’t everyone that could hold a girl like Nell and that, ‘to tell the truth,’ you and I’d always said that the one thing we were afraid of was that he wouldn’t be strong enough to hold her affection.”
“Yes, yes,”—excitedly.
“Well, that’s all. He’ll snort and blow a bit. He may even grind his teeth. But if you do it well, you’ll bring it off. First you wound his pride and then you slap its face. No matter what he says, I’ll bet he leaves this house mentally swearing he’ll show us whether he can hold Nell. . . . As for his loving you, sweetheart, you’ll have blotted that frenzy out.”
For a moment his wife looked thoughtful.
Then she got upon her feet.
“Crip,” she said, gently smoothing his hair, “you’ve got a lightning brain.”
“I’ve got a peach of a wife,” said Crispin Willoughby. He smacked the Sealyham’s flank. “Haven’t I, Boodle?”
The terrier sneezed his assent.
Husband and wife laughed.