“I’ll tell you about it then. The key’s as usual?”
She signed another “Yes” and walked away with her long drifting step as her husband came in from the hall.
He went up to the tray and poured himself out a tall glass of brandy and soda.
“The weather is turning queer—black as pitch. I hope the Swordsleys won’t walk into the lake—involuntary immersion, eh? He’d come out a Baptist, I suppose. What’d the Bishop do in such a case? There’s a problem for a lawyer, my boy!”
He clapped his hand on Wrayford’s thin shoulder and then walked over to his wife, who was gathering up her embroidery silks and dropping them into her work-bag. Stilling took her by the arms and swung her playfully about so that she faced the lamplight.
“What’s the matter with you tonight?”
“The matter?” she echoed, colouring a little, and standing very straight in her desire not to appear to shrink from his touch.
“You never opened your lips. Left me the whole job of entertaining those blessed people. Didn’t she, Austin?”
Wrayford laughed and lit a cigarette.
“There! You see even Austin noticed it. What’s the matter, I say? Aren’t they good enough for you? I don’t say they’re particularly exciting; but, hang it! I like to ask them here—I like to give people pleasure.”