“That must have been Claude Musters.”
“No,” I said.
“You must tell me,” she insisted. “Why are you such a tease?”
“His name was Sibthorp,” I said.
“Oh!” Rose replied, “he’s staying with the Wilkinsons. He’s rather a nuisance, but he did well in the War, every one says. It’s terrible, the bores that did well in the War! What did he want?”
“Nothing much,” I said. “Only to marry you.”
Rose laughed. “Like his cheek,” she said.
“None the less,” I said, during our dessert—and I have some rather good Taylor 1880 which deserves to be sipped slowly—“this question of marriage is bound to crop up now and then.”
“Why?” Rose asked.
“Because you’re a not repellent young woman, and the neighbourhood appears to be infested by Claudes and Reggies, and Nature is always urgent.”