"Well, they'll see you haven't—"
I stopped, for a smile was playing about her lips as she lay back, looking into the elm-tops. Then I caught her cool, left hand. From the third finger a plain gold ring winked at me. I stared at it. Till we arrived at the house, her hands had been gloved. I balanced her hand in my palm, and looked at her.
"There is," I said, "a question."
"Yes?"
"Yes. Are you married?"
"You've been telling me I am for the last half—hour."
"Yes, but are you really?"
"Peter, dear!" This in a tone of gentle rebuke.
I ground my teeth.
"And you're going to win me bread, you know—nice brown bread."