“If you were in any sense a devoted wife,” he said, “you would drive up with me, deposit me at the F.O., and then wait three hours for me in the motor till lunch time. I could give you an hour then, after which you would wait four hours more and drive back with me. Therefore shall a woman leave her father and her mother and cleave to her husband.”
“Yes, of course I’ll come,” said she, “if you want me to. You must just say you really want me.”
He took hold of her elbows from behind and ran her along the terrace.
“Motor-bike,” he observed. “I’m pushing you till you get your sense of humour working on its own account.”
“It’s working—I swear it’s working,” shrieked Silvia. “Don’t be such a bully.”
A seat on the balustrade of the terrace seemed indicated after this violent exercise.
“There’s another thing,” said Peter. “My mental power of association of ideas is decaying, which is a sign of softening of the brain. Aren’t you sorry?”
“Is that the brain in your head?” asked she.
“No; in the same place that ached when I had a headache. Left ankle. Don’t interrupt. But there’s something in this house front, and I believe it’s the cornice, or whatever they call it, which runs all along there underneath the windows on the first floor, which—that’s the cornice—reminds me of some other house.”
Peter pointed to the broad frieze-like band which projected some foot or so from the wall of the house. It was of Portland stone, amazingly carved with masks at intervals, and ran, as he had said, just below the first floor windows from end to end of the façade. Then he gave a yodel which, consciously or not, was a hoarse and surprising parody of his father’s favourite method of indicating a general sumptuousness of sensation.