“Yes, I did. I’ve had it for months and months. But I never knew what it was till . . .”
“When did you know, Toby?”
“At sixteen minutes past five,” said Toby, “yesterday morning.”
OLIVER
OLIVER
“D’you realize, Oliver, that this is our wedding-day?”
Letter in hand, Oliver Pauncefote looked up.
“By Jove, so it is,” he said. “May the eighth. So it is. Many happy returns, m’dear.”
Jean Ludlow Pauncefote did not reply. For a moment she stood staring at her reflection in the tall pier-glass. Then she slid slowly out of her striking cloak, threw this across a chair, lighted a cigarette, and flung herself upon the bed.
“What did you think,” she demanded, “that marriage was going to be like?”