Setting his elbows upon the severing march of table-cloth, George Fulke crowded into his eyes as much devotion as they would hold.
“You are my star,” he said fervently.
“Good,” said Julia. “Well, now let’s come down to earth. I wired for you because I’m in need of a—a——”
“Knight?” suggested George Fulke.
“Yes, but dismounted,” said Miss Willow. “Don’t be soppy. This table isn’t round. . . . And now listen. Entirely between you and me, I want to break off my engagement.”
“Julia darling!”
“That’s better,” said Miss Willow. “Now listen again. I tell you I want to break it, and so I do. But I can’t do it.”
“Why on earth not?” cried Fulke.
“Because I’ve lost my ring. It was a perfectly beautiful ring—an enormous solitaire emerald. Heaven knows what it was worth. And of course I can’t possibly fire Hubert without handing it back.”
George found his moustache and pulled it respectfully.