The next incident in the affair occurred at about a quarter to eight that evening. I was tying my tie when my wife's voice summoned me to her room in tones that presaged disaster. Philippa was standing erect, in a white and glittering garment. Her eyes shone, her cheeks glowed. It is not given to every one to look their best when they are angry, but it undoubtedly is becoming to Philippa.
"I ask you to look at my dress," she said in a level voice.
"It looks very nice——" I said cautiously, knowing there was a trap somewhere. "I know it, don't I?"
"Know it!" replied Philippa witheringly, "did you know that it had only one sleeve?"
She extended her arms; from one depended vague and transparent films of whiteness, the other was bare to the shoulder. I rather preferred it of the two.
"Well, I can't say I did," I said helplessly, "is that a new fashion?"
There was a spectral knock at the door, and Hannah, the housemaid, slid into the room, purple of face, abject of mien.
"It's what they're afther tellin' me, ma'am," she panted. "'Twas took to sthrain the soup!"
"They took my sleeve to strain the soup!" repeated Philippa, in a crystal clarity of wrath.
"She said she got it in the press in the passage, ma'am, and she thought you were afther throwin' it," murmured Hannah, with a glance that implored my support.