George Alison regarded his wife.
"Let us hope," he said gloomily, "that it's a better month. In the course of the last four weeks I've had seventeen punctures, I've endured a miscarriage of justice which has undoubtedly shortened my life, and I've lost as good a pal as ever I struck."
"To hear you speak," said Betty, "any one would think that Anne and I had enjoyed ourselves. It's been just as bad for us."
The chauffeur shook his head.
"You rave," he said shortly. "In the first place, what have you to do with tires?"
"If we haven't had the punctures," was the reply, "we've heard enough about them."
"Yes," said Anne. "It's been almost as bad as golf. 'What I did at the fourteenth hole.'"
"In the second place," said George, "women adore irregularity. I can conceive nothing more delectable to the feminine appetite than the spectacle of Justice derailed. The apotheosis of our esteemed friend and late colleague, Mr. Albert Morgan, has afforded you two more indirect gratification than anything I can remember."
"Gratification?" almost screamed the two girls.
"Gratification," said George. "If I'd come home and said he'd pleaded guilty and been sent down for five years, you'd have been all depressed. In the third place——"