Mrs. Evans did not practice at home all those arts of pleasing with which she was so lavish in other people’s houses. Also, this morning she felt rather cross, a thing which, to do her justice, was rare with her.
“Not very,” she said. “I kept waking. It was stiflingly hot.”
“I’m sorry, my dear,” said he.
Mrs. Evans busied herself with tea-making; her long, slender hands moved with extraordinary deftness and silence among clattering things, and her husband whistled the “Merry Widow Waltz” once or twice more.
“Oh, Wilfred, do stop that odious tune,” she said, without the slightest hint of impatience in her voice. “It is bad enough on your pianola, which, after all, is in tune!”
“Which is more than can be said for my penny whistle?” asked he, good-humouredly. “Right you are, I’m dumb. Tell me about your party last night.”
“My dear, haven’t you been to enough Riseborough parties to know that there is nothing to tell about any party?” she asked. “I sat between Major Ames and the son. I talked gardening on one side with the father, and something which I suppose was enlightened Cambridge conversation on the other. Harry Ames is rather a dreadful sort of youth. He took me into the garden afterwards to show me something about roses. And the carriage didn’t come. Major Ames saw me home. When did you get in?”
“Not till nearly three. Very difficult maternity case. But we’ll pull them both through.”
Millie Evans gave a little shudder, which was not quite entirely instinctive. She emphasized it for her husband’s benefit. Unfortunately, he did not notice it.