"We breakfasted together."
"Cheerful person, isn't he?"
"No," I said. "He looked cross and ill."
"Ill!" she said, with a shade of anxiety. "Oh, you only mean dyspeptic."
"Perhaps."
"Well, he always does when he comes from Paris. If you could go into his room and see the row of photographs on his mantelpiece, you might guess why."
"Pictures of 'Sole Dieppoise' and 'Poulet à la Victoria aux Truffes,' no doubt," I hazarded.
She doubled up with laughter. "Yes, just that," she said. "Well, he adores me in his way, and will bring me a new Cartier ring to make up for it—you will see at luncheon."
"He is a perfect husband, then."
"About the same as you will find Christopher. Only Christopher will start by being an exquisite lover. There is nothing he does not know, and Charlie has not an idea of that part. Heavens!—the dulness of my honeymoon!"