"Well, we do."
"Such lots of rabbit-holes."
"What does it matter?"
"Oh, dear, you're very cross."
"I can't help it," he said like an unhappy child. "I can't help it." And he put his hand to his head with an uncertain movement.
"Oh." With a practical air she sought for an impersonal topic. "Tell me about Paris."
"Paris." There was no need for him to speak above a murmur. "I want to take you there."
"Do you?"
He leant lower. "Will you come?"
Her eyes moved under his, but they did not turn aside. "I think I'm going there with some one else," she said softly, and before her vision of this eager lover there popped a spruce picture of Uncle Alfred.