Out of the flood of their engagements, the two were careful to save one evening a week, upon which they dined together at their own house. Afterwards they sat in the library until eleven o’clock. Then Giles would get up, and Katharine come to the door to see him out. Arrived at the threshold, her husband would kiss her fingers.
“Good night, sweetheart. Sleep well.”
And the lady would answer gravely—
“Till next week, Gill. Good-bye.”
One Thursday, half-way through June, such a meeting took place.
When coffee had been served, and the two were left to themselves,
“My dear,” observed Giles, “let me thank you for a most toothsome repast.”
“It isn’t my fault,” said his wife. “ ‘Better is a dinner of herbs where love is.’ ”
“Oh, ‘Cries of “Shame,” ’” said Giles. “ ‘Cries of “Shame” and “Withdraw.” ’ ‘Dinner of herbs’! Why, each of those tournedos was a stalled ox in itself. And no hatred, neither. That sole, too!” He sighed memorially, raising thankful eyes. “You know, we’ve beaten the sword into a fish-slice and the proverb into a cocked hat. Seriously, Kate, we’ve shown considerable skill.”
“In reverting to the rank of private?”