In a long and brilliantly lighted drawing-room, desolate with its rows of empty chairs, the popular hostess who was also a Suffragette stood alone with the man whose smile had puzzled every one who saw it, half-an-hour ago, except the woman who had broken windows.
"It's simply magnificent of you," said his wife.
He took a walk round and moved some of the expensive hothouse plants. "I hate these things," he said. "Why do we have them? Let's open some more windows and get rid of the smell."
She laughed, and watched him go across to manipulate blinds and bolts. "You are always the same man I married, even when you are quite different, as you were this evening," she remarked, with equal inconsequence.
"You're not the same woman as the one I married!" he shot back at her.
"But I am!" she cried. "I am, I am! And that's the whole point!"
He looked round at her, the smile back in his face. "Perhaps it is," he said. "Perhaps it is. Pity we've both missed it for eleven years, isn't it?"