"It is, really," said Betty. "And the tints at this time of year—why, even George raves about it!"
"That's right," said her husband. "Never lose an opportunity of insult. Why 'even George'? Can't a chauffeur have a soul?"
"Who went to sleep at the Russian Ballet?" said Betty.
"Go on," said George. "Rake over the muck-heap. And what if I did?
The music suggested slumber. I merely adopted the suggestion."
"Did it also suggest that you should snore?" said his wife. "Or was that your own idea?"
George touched Anthony on the arm and nodded towards the speaker.
"Look at the scorn in that eye," he said. "See? The one that's looking our way."
With an air of unutterable contempt, Betty lighted a cigarette and then hurled the matchbox at her unsuspecting spouse. The missile ricocheted off his chin and fell noisily into the cup of tea which was halfway to his lips….
When order had been restored—
"He must see it at once," said Betty. "Before the leaves fall."