"Very well, we'll tell another lie," says Mr. Monkton cheerfully. "We'll say you've got the neuralgia badly, and that the doctor says it would be as much as your life Is worth to cross the Channel at this time of year."
"That will do very well," says Mrs. Monkton readily.
"But—I'm not a bit superstitious," says he solemnly. "But it might affect you in some way, do you some harm, and—"
"If you are going to make a jest of it, Freddy——"
"It is you who have made the jest. Well; never mind, I accept the responsibility, and will create even another taradiddle. If I say we are disinclined to leave home just now, will that do?"
"Yes," says she, after a second's struggle with her better self, in which it comes off the loser.
"That's settled, then," says Mr. Monkton. "Peace with honor is assured. Let us forget that unfortunate letter, and all the appurtenances thereof."
"Yes: do let us, Freddy," says she, as if with all her heart.
But the morning convinces Monkton that the question of the letter still remains unsettled. Barbara, for one thing, has come down to breakfast gowned in her very best morning frock, one reserved for those rare occasions when people drop in over night and sleep with them. She has, indeed, all the festive appearance of a person who expects to be called away at a second's notice into a very vertex of dissipation.