Her husband lowered his letter in some surprise.
“My dear,” he said, “it is now a quarter of three, and two bottles of ’98 Mumm require sleeping off. If we must search each other’s hearts——”
“In vino veritas,” said Jean. “Go on.”
Oliver put down his letter and took off two coats. Then he bestrode a chair, pulled up his shirt-sleeves, and proceeded to fill a pipe.
“Say it again,” he said.
“What did you think,” said Jean, “that marriage was going to be like?”
Her husband reflected, frowning.
At length—
“I really don’t know,” he said. “I got a bit rattled once or twice. You know. After bein’ congratulated by some strong, earnest mortal with a pre-war hand. Enough to make anyone suspicious. And I asked one or two coves who’d done it. All they said was that it all depended on the girl. . . . But I’m very happy, Jean. I’ve no complaints. If you ask me, I think we’ve got on damned well. We’ve been married a solid year and we’ve never had a first-class row.”
“That,” said Jean, expelling a cloud of smoke, “is because we don’t care.”