“Are you sure we’re gregarious?” said Katharine.
“Of course we are,” said Giles. “We bleated because we were alone. We heard each other bleating, and—and forgathered. We were lonely, and hated the state. We were and are gregarious. I repeat that the way in which we have harked back to celibacy does us infinite credit.”
“Honour to whom honour is due,” said Mrs. Festival. “I’m not gregarious. I thought I was. I thought I would like a confidant—someone to cry my thoughts to without having to think what I said, someone who’ld give me my towel and—and generally understand.”
“In fact, a blinkin’ soul-mate?”
“And towel-horse combined. Exactly. Well, I was wrong.”
“But you bleated,” protested Giles. “I heard you. You advertised for a soul-mate, and I applied for the place. A waster by nature, I presently let you down, but that’s irrelevant.”
“It’s also untrue,” said his wife. “And you know it. You never let anyone down. Never mind. Gill, I’m afraid I married in much the same frame of mind as I try a new scent.” The other started. “I’ve always used Baladeuse, and always shall. But now and again I go mad and waste your substance on a bottle of something else. Then, when I’ve used it twice, I give it to Beatrice.”
Considerably taken by surprise, her husband regarded his ash-tray with an offensive stare. Presently he sighed.
“At least,” he murmured, “I escaped that odious depository. . . .” Katharine began to shake with laughter. “I see. Not to put too fine an edge upon it, you married out of pure curiosity. In a mad moment you ventured out of spinsterhood just to see what coverture was like. And I was under the impression that—— Never mind. It’s a pretty simile. Perfume. I suppose I was a sixpenny flask of ’Ard an’ Bright. . . . Oh, très intéressant.” Releasing the ash-tray, he shifted his gaze to the ceiling and, drawing at his cigarette, meditatively expelled the smoke. “Supposing,” he added slowly, “supposing—to preserve the parable—you had another—er—lapsus cordis . . . got momentarily sick of Baladeuse and, forgetful of jolly old ’Ard an’ Bright, felt impelled to try What are the Wild Oats Saying, or some other frankincense?”
Katharine shot her husband a lightning glance.